


Kiss of Death

by perfectpro



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: F/M, Kidnapped Lydia, Kidnapping
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-23
Updated: 2015-06-23
Packaged: 2018-04-05 20:37:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 24,168
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4194060
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/perfectpro/pseuds/perfectpro
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After nearly a month of being held captive by Isaac and Derek, Lydia decides that she's going to get out with or without help from her friends. Meanwhile, Stiles, Scott, Allison, and Jackson have banded together to find their friend.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Kiss of Death

She spends three weeks being horrified and repulsed, three weeks of being sort-of kidnapped by her could-have-been-boyfriend and his partner in crime, three weeks of hotel rooms and falling asleep on scratchy sheets at night with her wrists handcuffed to the bedposts that prevent her escape. Three weeks of shaking uncontrollably if Isaac tries to touch her, three weeks of Derek’s threats of what will happen if she thinks that she can run whispered lovingly against the shell of her ear, three weeks of terror that sinks into her bones and isolates her from the girl that used to be called indomitable.  
  
Every night is hell. In the morning, it’s easier to pretend that nothing’s happened. It’s easier to isolate herself from the reality of it all, to make believe that they are going on an extended road trip to a destination that has not yet been decided on. That’s what makes the afternoons bearable, what prevents her from going crazy as she sits across from Isaac and drinks coffee at Starbucks as though it’s any other day in the world, as though he isn’t a killer. As though she could still be with him.  
  
If the days are bearable, the nights are riddled with horrors. Derek will sit and talk with her in the evenings, tell stories that belong to past lives he led, work it into conversation that they’re trying to be rational about all of this. It makes her cry sometimes, sobs wracking through her body as Derek goes on, outwardly oblivious to her suffering.  
  
Isaac tells him to stop it once, during the first week, after a particularly gruesome tale. Derek just meets his eyes steadily and says, “She has to know what will happen if she runs.”  
  
His words are the truth, facts that add up to the end result of Derek being completely willing to hunt her down if she tries to make a break for it one day. It’s the only thing that keeps her with them, the knowledge that Derek would rip her throat out without a second thought.  
  
She dreams about death, about Isaac’s voice coming from a demon with glowing eyes that strangles her almost gently, about Derek bathing her in blood, about a knife at the bottom of a pool. They’re not always nightmares, and that’s what scares Lydia the most.  
  


-x-  
  


For their first date, Isaac meets Lydia at a coffee shop. When he arrives, it’s clear that she’s been sitting for a while. A paper is spread out in front of her, one with so many complicated formulas it almost gives him a headache just to look at it. She’s slashing through large sections with a red pen before making notes in the margins for replacements.

“Oh,” Lydia says, looking up and seeing him. She gathers up the papers quickly, straightening them in a neat pile before she puts them into her bag. “I didn’t see you come in.” She wishes, for just a moment, that she didn’t feel ridiculous for no reason at all.

“It looks like you’ve been here for a while. I’m sorry I’m so late,” Isaac tells her, glancing around to find a clock. He knows the clock in his car is off by a couple of minutes, but he didn’t think that it was off by quite so much.

Blushing, Lydia shakes her head. “I had some time before, so I came over to work on a paper.” She offers herself a steadying breath before standing and moving over to hug him quickly. This will be nice. This will be good for me, she thinks. She needs something to push her out of her comfort zone, to remind her that she can’t just lock herself up in her apartment and keep busy with schoolwork forever.

They separate briefly, neither sure of the other before Lydia motions for him to sit down. “Please, don’t mind me. I just wanted to try to get a little done while I could. I made a mistake while typing it up, because I forgot I’d already used one of the variable for something else. Basically, there ended up being no unknowns instead of two, so the proof looked like something a grade schooler would have come up with.” She sits back down and presses her hands into the hard lines of the chair, attempting to convince herself to stop talking. She’s not Stiles, for Christ’s sake.

Isaac doesn’t know what kind of equations Lydia had been working on, but he’s willing to bet that he probably isn’t able to solve the mistaken version now. He never would have been able to do it in grade school. “I’m a psych major, so I’ll believe you if you say so. Math has never been my strong suit.”

First dates aren’t something that Lydia considers fun. She imagines they have the same feeling as a group conference between two companies who are thinking about merging together. There is always someone sizing the other up, trying to divine from the type of coffee one drinks whether or not it will work out in the long run. In the end, she supposes, the first date doesn’t matter that much. Excluding outliers, there’s no reason for a couple to stay together or to break things off just because the first time they made an attempt didn’t go as well as planned. Lydia tries to do things right anyway, makes jokes at the appropriate times about things that aren’t controversial, laughs at the jokes that Isaac makes in return, and she smiles. Her mother’s voice is in her head, telling her to hold her chin a little higher, smile a little wider but not so wide that she shows her gums.

She hasn’t been on a date in months. Not since Jackson, really. Isaac is trying so hard, bless him, that the pauses in conversation seem to take longer than normal, and some of the things that he says seem a little forced. She chalks it up to nerves and tries to get him through it, wondering why she doesn’t have any of her own.

-x-

Isaac tries to make her as comfortable as he can most nights, always making sure that she gets one of the beds to herself and that her wrists aren’t tightened to the point of pain. He still smiles at her sometimes, the grin that convinced her in a Psych course to bring him a cup of coffee.  
  
Isaac is kind and sometimes insightful and often concerned about her well-being, but isn’t him, this can’t be him. And her mind is blank, completely blank during the nights when he comes to her and tries to explain about the killings. She forces herself to withdraw, to disconnect this beast of a man from the boy who brought her coffee after she pulled particularly bad all-nighters, who tripped down the front steps of her apartment building on their first date, who kissed her on a bench on campus because he wanted to know what it would be like. He’s not the same person; he’s not even different sides of the same person.  
  
Derek doesn’t handcuff her at night. That is, Isaac won’t let him. He grudgingly does it, after Derek’s held them out to him forcefully. He does it before he leaves her with what are always the same words whispered into her ear, low enough that Derek can’t hear, “I won’t let anyone hurt you.”  
  
It always takes her hours to fall asleep.  
  


-x-

  
It’s been three weeks since she’s been with them, and they’re leaving a hotel when it happens. Their bags have already been moved to the car, Derek just needed to go through and sign some paperwork and pay for the fact that Lydia had ripped one of the sheets during a nightmare. Derek walks quickly in front as Isaac sticks to her side, arm wrapped tightly around her waist in a show of almost possessive restraint, and then it happens. It’s getting to be dark, the hour is past the usual check-out time, and they’re walking through an alleyway as a shortcut to get to the back parking lot when someone steps from the shadows and takes hold of her arm and a scream builds in her throat.

Lydia Martin is not a damsel in distress, but lately she’s been too busy fearing for her life to keep up with her Taekwondo classes. Besides that, she’s taken by such surprise that she freezes before trying to initiate a takedown, forgetting that she still has Isaac’s arm around her.

“Get off of her,” Derek says as soon as he hears Lydia’s gasp, turning around without pause while watching the situation intently.

Lydia suppresses a cry at the feeling of her shoulder dislocating, the man yanking her backwards and out of Isaac’s grip as she twists against him. She watches as Isaac gets a grip on the man’s wrist and clenches tightly onto it. Some sort of blade can be felt against her side, right below her ribcage, shallowly cutting into the skin. The scream cloys at her, clouding her senses and rendering her incapable of getting away. Someone is going to die. No matter how many times she remembers that she’s a banshee, the screaming never ceases to horrify her. Her breathing hitches, eyes wildly looking to Derek, who seems both impressed and nonplussed by the situation.

“You’re going to lose the hand you touched her with, do you understand me?” Isaac asks in a calm voice, the light in his eyes a shockingly bright reflection from the dim floodlight overhead. It’s an eerie image, Lydia surmises in a strangely detached way. It’s eerie all around, how it doesn’t feel quite real, how even though there is pain coursing through her right arm she still feels like she’s watching a scene from a movie rather than from her own life. She’s caught in an alley by some rapist, and she’s taking notice of how Isaac’s eyes look in the light.

“Isaac, keep it under control,” Derek says suddenly, and Isaac turns his head away so that the angle is lost and the reflection of light has disappeared. Lydia has no idea what Derek means by that, because the next thing she knows they both have knives out and are advancing.

The man tries to put up a fight, he clearly does. He gets in a swipe at Isaac’s side with the pocketknife, releasing Lydia in the process and sending her stumbling against the wall. She grasps at the wall almost incoherent, trying to swallow the scream down. She won’t do this, not here, not with these people.

Derek moves in completely once it’s clear that Lydia isn’t going to run, his switchblade swinging forward with a metallic sound that cannot be mistaken. They move in tandem from that point, a rhythm that comes with practice as they take him down. It’s messier than most of their other kills, this unknown man being cut to pieces in an alleyway as he screams about a wife and child, about forgiveness and justice, about bloodthirsty adolescents looking for someone to take their anger out on.

At least, she supposes it’s messier. There’s more blood on either of them than she’s ever seen before.

His cries pierce Lydia’s ears as she stands frozen against the wall, transfixed by the scene in front of her, unable to move away as she prepares to let her scream loose. She desperately tries to distract herself, distance herself from the situation by focusing in on the technique. There’s a sense of efficiency, Derek breaking the man’s arm as Isaac stabs him from the back, twisting the knife once it’s in place. Derek stabs him through the heart while Isaac removes his knife, and Lydia can’t contain it any longer. She is a banshee, continually drawn to death, unable to ever get away. Her head is pounding with the effort of keeping quiet, especially when she knows how useless it is. She knows the man is dying if he’s not dead already, knows that Isaac and Derek have done this before, but it doesn’t stop her from letting out a bloodcurdling shriek as she watches, unable to look away.

Lydia opens her mouth and screams, and Isaac and Derek exchange a look as they watch her take in the sight of the man slumped against the bring wall, bleeding out on the alley.

When he is no longer moving, Isaac fulfills his promise and cuts off the corpse’s right hand. It’s a sight so grotesque, the flesh sinking in at places as he jerks the knife through bone, that even Lydia is surprised by the fact that she’s mentally going over the bones in the arm rather than crying.

When all is said and done, Derek forces the body parts into a garbage bag and Isaac carries it to a nearby dumpster. Lydia finally passes out, rational thought weakening into a steady stream of Isaackilledsomeone, Isaackilledsomeone.

She comes to in the back of the car, her head on Isaac’s lap as the streetlamps of the highway blur past the windows, the sky shades of blue and purple. It’s hard to breathe, but that struggle pales in comparison to how her arm feels, a spiral of pain shooting up her nerves with each movement. Isaac’s fingers stroke through her hair reassuringly as she realizes that she had the chance to run and didn’t. The repetitive motion soothes her back into unconsciousness before that notion fully forms.

The next time she wakes up, the moon is high and nearly full and the sky looks black in comparison to the glowing orb and she can breathe a little bit easier. Isaac is no longer stroking her hair, but remains awake and keeps watch over her as the night drive is continued. When he notices that she’s come around, he whispers, “I won’t let anyone hurt you.”

She meets his eyes and allows herself believe him for the first time since she’s been taken.  


-x-

  
College fever catches Lydia before almost any of her peers. Her applications are all turned in before the early admission deadline, and she knows she’s picked well. The school she applies have top-level programs in mathematics, and three of them are in California. She gets accepted to all of them, arranges them into a bouquet of proof that she wants to shove under the face of every person in high school who ever called her stupid while she was still bothering with that façade. She doesn’t know which she wants to go to, because she’s confident that she’ll net her Fields Medal no matter where she attends. She doesn’t know which she wants to go to, but Jackson calls her and says he’ll be in California come fall, at UCLA. And though she’s not one to choose a college based on a boy, Lydia is someone who values her happiness. She grins into the phone speaker and remembers how lonely the second half of high school was, even after she had become friends with Stiles and Scott. Jackson never makes her feel lonely, he hasn’t since he’s been rid of the kamina. So she takes in a deep breath and looks at the stack of acceptance letters on her desk, shuffling them around until the UCLA logo stares back up at her.

Jackson stays up and watches the sun rise in London. Eight hours later, the conversation still going, Lydia does the same in Beacon Hills. She misses him, misses this ease of discussion that they’ve always had.

Sometime in the late morning, Allison comes to the Martins to pick Lydia up for a day of shopping and stress relief. Lydia bounces out of the house with more energy than she’s had in what feels like forever. Sure, she’s had more adrenaline before, but adrenaline energy doesn’t agree with her. She feels paranoid with it, as though her life is happening in technicolor or too fast. This happiness isn’t the same, not at all. It is so much better.

As they speed on the interstate toward Los Angeles, Lydia twirls a strand of hair as she watches the exit numbers fly by. Though she hadn’t told Jackson she was considering UCLA as well, she thinks on it during the car ride. She wants to stay close to home. Not for family purposes, but for pack purposes. Maybe they aren’t a real pack, not completely, not with Scott being an alpha with his only beta across the continent and the Atlantic, but they’re closer than anything else she’s likely to find. She knows Stiles is too concerned about his father to move very far off and Scott won’t be letting his best friend leave him. Scott will also want to stay close to Allison, who won’t want to make Scott choose between her and Stiles. They’ll all end up in the same area, if not the same school. Staying close is appealing. The east coast has always seemed too uptight for her taste, and when she lets herself truly consider it as more than a possibility, UCLA feels right.

She brings it up with Allison. The sun is high in the sky, Allison’s radio is turned up, and Lydia looks over and comments, “UCLA has a pretty good math program.” They do. Allison hasn’t decided on a major yet, but she knows she has to choose something soon.

Allison raises an eyebrow over the frame of her sunglasses and smirks slowly. “They do, but you’re the real mathematician. Not me.” She pauses, mulls it over in her mind. UCLA had been one of the places she’d talked about with her father, but she wants to be further away. Being home means she needs to keep up her training with the family business, and she doesn’t know how well she can be expected to do that. Her father is still hoping that she’ll break things off with Scott. “I hear they have a nice campus,” she says after a few moments.

“I haven’t seen it. We should take a tour tomorrow,” Lydia responds, a grin slowly making its way onto her features.  


-x-

  
The first time Jackson leaves for London, Lydia is sixteen and it is inconvenient but it is not the end of the world. She loves Jackson, sometimes she suspects that she might actually be in love with him, but she doesn’t cry as she waves goodbye from her front door and watches him back out of the driveway. Truthfully, she hadn’t even listened that attentively when he’d told her why he was leaving. It seems like some kind of weird blessing, in a way. She doesn’t need to date a werewolf. The very thought is ludicrous, and this excuse will work perfectly for distancing herself from Stiles and Scott. Allison and Scott are still involved, yes, and her best friend is a hunter, yes, and her best friend’s boyfriend is a werewolf, yes, and her best friend’s boyfriend’s best friend has an unknown something to do with magic, yes, but some things can’t be avoided.

Lydia dedicates her life to keeping as busy as possible. She learns Chinese because of an ad on the Internet, and she asks Allison to train her a little bit in martial arts. Nothing too fancy, just a bit of self defense. She thinks she’s doing all of these things because she misses him. Yes, she misses him. It seems ridiculous at first, how often she wants to call just to hear his voice. She manages to stop herself almost every time, even if it does mean giving Allison her phone whenever she drinks anything stronger than a Mike’s Hard. Allison teases her about it occasionally and in a friendly way, always reminding her that it’s okay to miss him. It’s okay to miss him, Allison repeats, and Lydia purses her lips and shakes her head, because, really, it’s not.

Being a teenager involves less lipstick and more life threatening situations than she thought it would. Even with Jackson gone and trying to stay clear of Scott as much as possible, she inevitably gets pulled back into the supernatural, and she finds out that she’s a banshee. Her head starts to hurt whenever she thinks about it, because she didn’t ask for that. She knows that’s unfair, knows that none of them ever really asked for this, but it still feels unfair. She was supposed to be the normal one out of all of them. She was supposed to be human.

Lydia wants to be popular and pretty and secretly a genius, because she’s good at those things and she likes doing them. Finding dead bodies is another story, because though even she can’t deny the talent she has, there is no sense of enjoyment. By this time, Scott and Allison are so used to their roles in the supernatural world that they try to give her lectures on acceptance and responsibility. Stiles is still too in love with her to be of much use, and that leaves her with no other option but to call Jackson.

Without a doubt, he is her best choice. Jackson isn’t thrilled with finding himself tossed senselessly into this new world, either. Being pretty much alone in London hasn’t made him any more accepting of it. A wolf needs a pack, and even though he never liked Scott it was a comfort to be around him all the same. He’s surprised to find out that she’s a banshee, but he teases her about it endlessly anyway. He makes dumb comments like “I always knew you were a screamer” that have her blushing in no time, laughing over the phone line, delighted to know that he can still make her laugh. Even if he is thousands of miles away.

-x-

  
Her arm hurts. It hurts like hell actually, and that’s the first coherent thought she’s had since passing out. The second is a question about her surroundings, about whose hands are lifting her out of… Where is she, exactly?

There’s a Best Western in her line of sight, and then she’s jostled suddenly. Her arm shifts slightly, and Lydia can’t help it when she cries out in pain. Without warning, pain shoots up her nerve endings and it’s a horrible feeling, one that distracts her so much that she loses the rest of her thought process.

“I think your shoulder is dislocated,” Derek tells her, his voice anchoring her to reality.

“I figured that out for myself, thanks,” she tells him, steadying herself on the ground. She hasn’t talked to Derek much, not if you don’t count the hours he’s spent detailing his killing career to her at her bedside. Which, you know, she doesn’t.

She’s met Derek before, of course, he’s one of Isaac’s odd friends who would come around the apartment occasionally before going out with him for a night to go clubbing. Or killing, consider that she knows what they do for fun now.

It’s when she’s shuddering with the memory that Isaac comes out and holds a hotel room card Derek. “We’ve got a room for a week, room 437. Fourth floor, faces the highway. Help me grab the bags,” he tells Derek, opening the trunk of the car to reveal several duffel bags.

Derek picks up one with each hand as he grabs the second key and heads off to put them away.

When they’re alone, Isaac turns to her and offers her a smile that’s too sympathetic to belong to a killer. “Did he tell you that we think your shoulder is dislocated?”

“Again, thanks, but I already figured that one out considering that I felt it move out of place. Get my bag,” she snaps at him, holding the elbow of her arm as she lets him put a hand softly between her shoulders and guide her to the hotel.

It’s this obsession that they have, that she always has to be practically attached to one of them or else she might “make a break for it.” As if she could out sprint either one of them, even though she is constantly aware of all of the exits in a room. For people who spend so much of their free time killing strangers, they really have no idea how to treat a captive.

She’s really not about to tell them, though, that she can pick a lock six ways to Sunday and knows the amount of force needed to break the handcuffs they use on her even if she isn’t sure how she would go about supplying that force. She’ll keep that information to herself until it becomes useful, until she can get a chance to use it without Derek’s ever watchful eyes on her. Right now, the only knowledge she’ll take advantage of is her training in first aid, including how to realign dislocated joints. The shoulder is easy; really, she only has to use her knees to push her onto her back before it feels mostly normal again.

-x-

  
Lydia meets Isaac in a developmental psychology class, an easy A she is taking to finish up her hours for a psychology minor and to perfect her manicure skills during. She’s about to start on the second coat of metallic purple and is screwing the cap off of the OPI bottle when the blonde in front of her turns and asks to borrow a pen. Caught off guard momentarily (more so by his excellent bone structure and Grecian inspired cheekbones than by the action), she knocks over the bottle accidentally as she hands off a Bic.

“Shit,” she curses, righting the bottle and capping it quickly. A few spots of purple liquid are spreading slowly across the desk, but the small bit that had lands on his sleeve catches her attention. “I didn’t mean to do that...”

He glances down at his shirt for a moment, finally taking note of the spot before giving her a grin and saying, “It’s no problem. I’m Isaac.”

The rest of the hour, Lydia stares determinedly at the lecture notes projected at the front of the class, only taking her eyes off of them to put the nail polish bottle back into her purse to finish her manicure in a separate class. When the class finishes, her things are packed quickly and she rushes out at the speed she normally reserved for the Macy’s Black Friday sale.

The next class, there is a Starbucks cup on the desk in front of Lydia’s. The name scrawled on the side reads Sorry, and Isaac drinks it without regard for the heat it hasn’t given off nor for the sugar she didn’t add before asking her out at the end of class, not meeting her eyes until her hand is on his cheek and an acceptance on her lips.

-x-

  
She first realizes it can work with Isaac on a bench outside of her apartment two weeks later, when she’s talking about the behavior of phospholipids in polar and non-polar solutions and he shuts her up with a kiss. It pisses her off at first, because that’s always what Jackson would do when he wanted her to stop talking, and she pulls back to tell him off, but the look on his face catches her off guard. It’s so open, so painfully expressive and unguarded and adoring, that she merely bites her lip to cut off the diatribe before ducking her head with a blush and a laugh.

“What?” he asks her, lowering his head to her reddened cheek.

Lydia smiles lightly. “We’re good together, that’s all.”

Most girls are thrilled when they realized that they were a good match with their partners. Lydia is filled with nausea and the memory of Jackson blushing as he bought the movies tickets for their first date, some action feature that they didn’t watch, too absorbed in each other to take notice of the nonexistent and predictable plotline that Hollywood had slung together for the purpose of a cheap thrill.

With Jackson, nothing was complicated. Even when she’d found out that he was a werewolf, it hadn’t been complicated. The Kamina part had been a roadblock in their relationship, but they’d gotten around it. Even when they’d discovered she was a banshee, it hadn’t taken them long to adjust, him laughing it off. The only truly strange experience was when Jackson told her about the rest of their friends’ connection to the supernatural world, and that had only pissed her off because he hadn’t told her as soon as he’d found out.

Isaac, though, he doesn’t know about anything like that. He doesn’t know, and she knows she’ll never tell him.  


-x-

  
Stiles calls her the day before she plans to call him, and she answers the phone delicately, careful not to mar the new coat of nail polish she’s just put on. “Stilinski, what’s up on the supernatural front?” The last thing she wants to do right now is go out and set a trap for some demon. Last she checked, they didn’t have any red-level threats. Unless something has been upgraded, but… She lets the thought drift off, tuning in when Stiles starts to talk.

“Nothing, no, we’re totally good unless you have a real hankering to take some pixies down. You probably don’t. Never mind, so I just finished talking with Scott, and I made my decision.” He sounds so pleased, but her heart sinks in her chest. She shouldn’t have put off calling him, she reflects. “UCLA has a new criminology major,” he declares, and Lydia squeals. This is the best thing she could have hoped for.

“I chose UCLA, too,” Lydia says, before adding, “Wait, what about Scott?”

“He’s coming, too. We’re going to be roommates!” His excitement is contagious, and this probably means that Lydia will get to have Allison as a roommate. Allison had been looking into UCLA, as per Lydia’s suggestion, and with her boyfriend going Lydia is confident that her best friend will join them.

She laughs at the thought of all of them reunited. The four of them, as close as ever, and Jackson will be back too. It makes her heart soar just thinking about it. She brings it up, says, “I actually meant to tell you, Jackson is coming to UCLA, too. He told me a week ago.”

The silence on his end is painfully suspicious and Stiles begins slowly, obviously unsure of how to approach whatever this subject is. “Lydia, UCLA is a really good school. Really, really good. But… Are you sure you’d be going there for any reasons other than that Jackson is going to be there?”

It’s sweet of him to worry, almost painfully so, but Lydia isn’t about to have anyone thinking that she’s choosing her college because of a boy. “I want to stay close to home. Besides, we’ll be a real pack. Scott will have another werewolf to commiserate with. Think about it, Stiles,” she chides him, looking at her nails to access how dry they are. “We have a chance to really build a pack. A real pack, no more of this Scott as alpha with the rest of us pretending that we have any understanding of how werewolf dynamics really work. Besides, as well off as I would be without the rest of you, you can’t deny how lost you guys would be without me.” The last part she means as a joke, she does, but it’s a little true.

“Yeah, yeah, I get it. It will be good to stay together, and it will be cool to see Jackson again,” Stiles grudgingly admits, and Lydia smirks as she says her goodbyes before hanging up. She’s Lydia Martin, and she gets what she wants.  


-x-

  
Isaac comes into the psychology lecture hall for the first time and smells wolf. His senses used to be tricked by things like perfume and body wash, but they’re now attuned to go behind the layers of deception and to find the scent underneath. It isn’t all that strong, more like a secondhand scent rather than the real thing. Still, he sits in front of the redhead that it’s stemming from and resists the urge to scent mark her, which she would interpret as creepy instead of territorial.

It is only after that thought crosses his mind that he reflects on the fact that it would be creepy, especially since he doesn’t know her name and she possibly has a werewolf friend who could try to make things go very badly for him.

Her scent is diluted, not recently marked, and that is what gives him the courage to ask her for a pen.  


-x-

  
Stiles isn’t awake, not quite, when someone knocks at the door at three in the morning. Not unless several Five Hour Energy shots to help him on his all-nighter count as awake. Which, despite the quickened heart rate, shouldn’t, because he mostly feels like vomiting. Although the nausea could be attributed to bar tab he ran up earlier in the night. He doesn’t feel awake, though, and that’s the point. He feels exhausted, really, if exhausted is even a feeling. He’s felt tired for so long now that it just comes second nature to him. His criminology major does that to him, what with his twenty hour course load.

He swings back the squeaking contraption before staring at Allison in confusion. “Allison, hey. I guess Scott didn’t tell you that he–”

“I didn’t come to talk to Scott. I came to talk to you.” And the look on her face is so set that Stile doesn’t even think about trying excuses about what time it is and how much homework bullshit he has to plow through, just opens a door a little wider and invites her inside.

The thing about Allison is that she is not a patient woman. Stiles has come to learn that over the years, watching her roll her eyes as she waits for Scott to finish up his grooming rituals. Scott is not a quick person, and Allison is not a patient person, but Scott is trying to increase his pace with most activities, and Allison is trying to not complain as loudly as she wants to. This is how Stiles knows that they are in love.

Allison’s lack of patience makes her a very pointed person. She does not have the peace of mind to deal with bullshitting around questions, making up small talk until the socially acceptable amount of time has passed to make a bequest. That is what gets her inside so quickly, taking off her coat before turning to Stiles and saying, “I haven’t seen Lydia since before the winter break.”  


-x-

  
Jackson is it for Lydia. She ran the numbers, so she knows the outcome. Jackson Whittemore is her first love, first kiss, first fuck, first everything. They are stubborn and driven, ambitious at all costs, and ruthless to the very core when needed. Lydia needs someone like that, someone who isn’t going to back down in the face of a fight, someone who is going to push her to the point of breaking.

Given their personalities and the distaste for change that they both harbor, Lydia knows that they would have continued on their path without a hitch had this minor setback not come up. That’s all it is, really. A minor setback. Nothing is going to get in the way of their future. They have a future, and it’s together. The Atlantic Ocean didn’t change that the first time, and it won’t change that now.

Despite the fact that they argue all the time, despite the fact that their relationship is a veritable disaster, despite the fact that neither is good at discussing feelings… No one makes her feel like Jackson does, like solving a calculus problem on the first try, like finishing the final draft of a thesis, like watching him score the winning goal of a lacrosse game every time he enters the room. Being with him is exhilarating, it always has been.

They would be college sweethearts; the plan was that he would propose during her last two years of graduate school and they’d get married the summer after she got her Ph.D. It would mean finishing a thesis and planning a wedding at the same time, but she’d done more in less time before. There was no reason for them to wait, before. She could see it all happening, but that wasn’t a problem for her. Lydia likes being on a schedule, being able to depend on Saturday date nights and reciting the lines to their favorite movies between kisses. There is a certain sense of stability that accompanies their relationship, stability that her adolescence had lacked what with her parents flying off whenever the spirit moved them.

The plan has changed. There will no longer be Saturday date nights for her to depend on, maybe a monthly phone call so that they don’t drift too far apart. Jackson is leaving, and it drives Lydia to madness when she thinks of it.

The sex is always good, always. She knows Jackson’s body almost as intimately as her own and isn’t shy about exploiting that knowledge when it suits her. He discovers what sensations made her go absolutely crazy, always attentive to how responsive she is, how she feels about everything that they try together. Their last time together consists of the two of them in their king size bed as Lydia tries to memorize the pattern of the popcorn ceiling instead of the moles on Jackson’s back, her eyes unwilling to meet his.

Their relationship was supposed to go off without a hitch, but now Jackson’s father is dead and Jackson has to go back to London for an indefinite amount of time, from what would last longer than a year and could last up to several, to deal with their last will and testament, which is being contested by some twice removed third European cousin who only met Mr. Whittemore briefly during the years he was in England.

“I wish I didn’t have to go,” he whispers against her shoulder as they take in the post-coital realization that he will be leaving in the morning. His words are true, she knows instinctively. He wouldn’t go if he had the choice.

She can’t make herself look at him. “Well, you have to.” The words feel hollow and useless in her mouth, but nothing better comes to mind. The sheets scratch against her skin, and she resists the temptation to roll on top of Jackson and force him to hold her for the remainder of their time together.

They lay there silently until Jackson pulls her tight against him, because he always knows what she wants even when she doesn’t tell him. “Don’t be mad.”

“I’m not mad.” The small huff of breath that she lets out gives her away, and she rolls over to face him. “I just wish you didn’t have to go.” They rarely cuddle, even post-coital, so she tries to enjoy the way that their bodies fit together and pushes his leaving out of her mind.

Carding his hand through her red hair, he makes a passing attempt at a smile. “We could try. Long distance isn’t that bad for some couples. Maybe we would be one of those that it works out for. It’s only a year.”

Meeting his eyes for the first time since they’d finished, Lydia frowns. “It’s probably for more than a year. We both know it wouldn’t work out.” Lydia isn’t good with keeping in touch with people who she doesn’t see often. Out of sight, out of mind, as the saying goes. Jackson is always eying new faces, passing them up only safe with the knowledge that Lydia is the best. A long distance relationship is a recipe for disaster for them, each needing to be constantly reminded of their worth to the other. The only reason they’re together now is because Jackson had the good sense to come back to California for college. He came back for Lydia, too, but that goes unsaid. She knows.

Jackson sighs, cupping her chin gently. He knows that she’s right, but it doesn’t make it feel any easier on him. He brings himself up on his elbows before staring into her eyes and saying, “I’ll come back for you.”

Burying her face into his neck with her arms twined around his body, she presses closer to him and tries to turn to where he won’t be able to feel her tears. “I’ll be waiting.” She knows they’ll find a way to be together. He’ll come back, she tells herself. It’s a pathetic attempt at comfort, and if anything it just makes her feel worse.  


-x-

  
Lydia has always hated hotel rooms. Even when she was a little girl and her parents drug her around the world on their many escapades, she hated not being able to sleep in her own bed. Hotel rooms remind her of her parents screaming over each other, each seeking their own desire and willing to use their daughter as a bargaining chip.

The rooms that Isaac and Derek use are no different, especially when they argue about what happens to her next. It’s something that Lydia’s been wondering about, too. They can’t keep her with them forever. The options are killing her or letting her go. Letting her go isn’t a favorite of either of theirs, because they both know that she’ll be on the phone with the police as soon as she’s out of their sight. Killing her is more practical, she’ll admit. It’s not like they haven’t done it before, and they wouldn’t have to deal with a captive after she was gone.

Still, Isaac says he doesn’t want unnecessary blood. That statement doesn’t make sense though, because haven’t all of the killings been unnecessary? Lydia knows to keep that opinion to herself, though, and she tries to not make herself any more of a hassle than she already is when Derek looks like he’s close to making a decision.

She’s been in survival mode for a bit. Not questioning anything, not acknowledging anything, simply willing herself to keep going. Survival mode doesn’t stop her from noticing that they’ve been getting it all wrong, though, because neither boy is good at luring victims. Mostly, she interprets that they kill men. Middle aged men, creeps with moral ground that measures at below sea level. Men like the one who grabbed her in the alley.

Isaac doesn’t like to tell her about the killings, tries to dissuade her from asking about them and keeps the information she does ask for to himself. Derek is much more open about sharing, believes that honesty is the best policy or some other outdated thought that no one else holds dear. Or, and Lydia believes her second hypothesis is more likely, he just doesn’t have the energy to lie to her.  


-x-

  
Scott comes back to the duplex that he shares with Stiles at eleven thirty in the morning, completely worn out from spending the night in the library and then taking the test that he’d studied there for. He is ready to sleep for the foreseeable future, as his classes on Friday end early. He’s done for the day and is desperately looking forward to resting up before taking Allison out in the evening.

As he turns the door handle, he realizes that he forgot his key when he left yesterday. Stiles has a class at eleven, but Scott knows that his best friend has never been one to shoot for perfect attendance, so he bangs at the door and yells out, “Stiles! You here?” After a few tries, he accepts that Stiles has gone to class and left him to find a way in himself. Typically, they kept a spare key buried in the ivy plant by the door, but he’s having another key made to give to Allison so that key is at the hardware store a few blocks over.

He considers his options, which seem to be grimmer than they had been only moments before. He can wait for Stiles, walk back to campus and meet up with Stiles to get the key, walk over to Allison’s apartment and hang out with her, walk to the hardware store and hope the keys are done, or he can climb the trellis in the back to the window that he hopes hasn’t been left locked. None of those choices look appealing, but climbing the trellis would get him into bed the fastest. With that, he jimmies the gate to backyard open the way that Stiles had shown him and grabs onto the trellis carefully, testing his weight before fully trusting the old wooden piece.

The trellis hadn’t been something that he or Stiles had particularly wanted, but when they’d started to rent the house Allison couldn’t stand to see the backyard in the state it had been, overgrown and disorganized. She’d rallied them to spruce up the place over a couple of weekends, and Lydia and Jackson had bought them the trellis ‘to cover the ugly siding’ that bothered Lydia so much to see whenever they grilled outside. Jackson and Stiles had put it in on a Saturday with plans for Allison and Lydia to install the plants the following day, but they’d gotten distracted. The rest of the backyard had already been taken care of at that point, and given that Allison was the only one truly fond of the crusade, no one had taken the initiative to truly finish the job. The trellis had never had plants on it, but Scott didn’t mind so much. He’d heard that plants on trellises could grow into the house if not watched closely. He hadn’t been looking forward to paying for that damage, so the empty trellis was fine with him.

He lifts himself easily to the window, which he fidgets with for just a few moments before it swings open, and then he parts the curtains to reveal Stiles holding a baseball bat that he could swing down to perfectly hit Scott in the face. “What the hell?” Scott exclaims, nearly losing his balance as he hoists himself onto the ledge.

Stiles exhales and puts the bat down, stepping aside to let Scott see Allison holstering her knife. “Were you guys going to kill whoever was there if it hadn’t been me?” he asks, pulling himself into the room before shutting the window behind him.

“Yes,” Allison says at the same time that Stiles squeaks an unconvincing “maybe” that tries and fails to cover up the fact he had only moments ago been poised to knock Scott unconscious. Scott doesn’t know whether he cannot believe that these are his friends, or that he can. He doesn’t know which is worse.

“You never know what kind of supernatural shit might come crawling in. This time it’s a werewolf, tomorrow it’s one of those demon fairies that we thought we killed last week. Good to see you, buddy,” Stiles says, clapping his best friend on the back and retreating back into the other room.

“I knocked,” Scott calls after him, smiling dopily as he hugs Allison and presses his face into her neck. “I thought we were going out for dinner, not lunch. Let me get my key and we can head out now,” he says, because despite the fact that he’s almost pushing thirty hours without sleep, he’s not going to stand up Allison.

She scratches at his hair while he rests his face on her collarbone and hums appreciatively when he presses a soft kiss into the side of her neck. “We did have dinner plans, but I came over for a different reason. Sorry about not hearing you knock, we were kind of working on something.” She sighs and waits for Scott to lift his head off of her shoulder and look her in the eyes. “I think Lydia is missing. I saw her before finals and she called me at the beginning of the break, but that’s all I’ve heard from her.”

“Sometimes she forgets how easily we worry about her. If we don’t hear anything by the end of the week, I can go check it out,” Scott offers. Lydia had done this before, dropping all lines of communications for a month or so until she showed up out of the blue as though she’d never left.

“I know. Sometimes she doesn’t call or text, and that’s fine. I know that she will when she needs to, but we always go to her favorite bakery off campus the second Thursday of every month. We were out of school in January, so we didn’t go then. But we always meet there. Second Thursday of every month, no matter what. We’ve been doing it since freshman year, first semester. The last time she wasn’t able to go was when she drove Jackson to the airport, and then she let me know before. I went yesterday at eight, which is when we usually get there, and she didn’t show up, and her phone was sending every call straight to voicemail. She still hadn’t shown by nine thirty, so I drove over to her apartment, and she wasn’t there. Long story short, I broke in, and I don’t know that she ever came back from the break. Her suitcase is missing, everything that she would have taken with her isn’t there.” Allison blinks rapidly as she tries to keep her fears at bay, hoping desperately that this isn’t anything more than Lydia being tired of talking to everyone. Her best friends has to be okay.

Okay, so no one has heard from Lydia in a while. Scott tries to reason his way through that, hypotheticals springing into his mind to offer him any other kind of alternative. Only one seems plausible enough to voice, though, but he gets distracted when Allison tugs him into the room that she and Stiles had been in, the empty room in the place that ends up getting used as whatever they need it to be at the time. Currently, there are whiteboards lining the walls, with a bulletin board sitting atop the desk Stiles uses for his crackpot criminology theories. Instead of police reports pinned on it, however, there are photographs of Lydia and a map of the city, connected by different colored strings. He can’t quite make out the pattern, but he knows that Stiles has some sort of crazy organization underneath it all. The printer in the corner is trying to spit out a page of what Scott really hopes is a map of campus instead of a map of the underground tunnel system that the city hasn’t used in years, the one that Stiles always comments on would be perfect for a kidnapping.

“You guys have been busy,” Scott says, still trying to take everything in. He hasn’t talked to her since break, but that couldn’t be right. Lydia can’t just be gone. A wave of exhaustion hits him as he thinks about their friend.

Stiles blinks up from the computer and looks around distractedly, nodding all the while. “Yeah, we’ve been working since three this morning.” He bites into a Twizzler and goes back to staring at the monitor, tapping keys almost absentmindedly.

Knowing that he’s probably going to be pointing out the obvious, Scott stalls before asking about the situation that seems the most plausible. Allison and Stiles have done an insane amount of work in the eight or so hours they’ve had. They wouldn’t overlook something they both know Lydia has been wanting to do for a while. Scott sighs and doesn’t say anything, knows they already would have looked into that before diving down this rabbit hole of possibilities.

Allison sighs and puts a hand on Stiles’s back, saying, “Yeah, and you already needed sleep then. You’re exhausted, both of you. Go to bed, I’ll wait here for Danny. I’ll wake you up when he gets here, Stiles.”

Scott and Stiles obediently leave the room to get to their respective beds, and Stiles is opening his bedroom door when Scott asks, “Danny’s coming?”

“I need him to pull phone records for us, GPS, that kind of thing. We need to find her.” Stiles pauses, forcing himself to shrug it off. He doesn’t want to think about if Lydia could be in danger.

The question nags at Scott, who knows that Stiles will leave as soon as he nods and turns to his own door. He can’t let it go though, because Lydia’s been known to do more spontaneous things before without telling them. She’s been having a rough time of it lately, he knows. The last time that he’d seen Lydia, the stench of regret had rolled off her in such heavy waves that he’d been nauseated when she walked through the door. Stiles and Allison would have already made that call, probably Allison because she keeps in touch the most with him besides Lydia. They wouldn’t just let this possibility go unchecked, but Scott has to make sure. He glances over at Stiles and asks, hesitantly, “Did you guys check to make sure she isn’t with Jackson?”  


-x-

  
Derek leaves the hotels early. Lydia rarely wakes up to find him there, usually it’s just her and Isaac. She begins what has become her morning routine, twisting her wrists around to figure out where the handcuffs have loosened overnight, checking to see if Isaac is in the room, and wishing that Jackson or Allison what with her. Honestly, by this point she has no idea why she checks the handcuffs first thing. Isaac and Derek don’t leave her handcuffed, something that she’s eternally grateful for. They just want to make sure she doesn’t leave while they’re asleep and wouldn’t notice. During the day, they’ve made sure that she knows they notice.

Finding the handcuffs just as secure as they’d been the night before, Lydia rolls herself onto her side and looks to see where Isaac is. The other bed is empty, as is the pull-out couch. The bathroom light is on, though, and she hears water running.

This is her life, she realizes dully. No longer is she the girl who takes soul crushing course loads and comes out with a perfect GPA. No longer is she someone who is able to take on the supernatural. She is simply a victim. She is the one thing that she swore Lydia Martin would never become, not after watching her mother (then still a Mrs. rather than a Ms.) dab concealer on fading bruises as though she was applying armor. Not after watching her friends fall to creatures she had only heard of in fairy tales. Not after Peter Hale.

She thinks of Jackson, the first time he showed her how to throw a proper punch. He would be able to rip himself from the handcuffs, destroy the captors with little trouble. Allison, with all of her hunting prowess, would catch them completely off guard, have them in handcuffs and beginning for mercy that she wouldn’t give. Scott, the True Alpha that he was, would only hurt them if they’d hurt his friends and would otherwise deliver them to the police, zip tied and with a note apologizing to the sergeant for the inconvenience. Stiles, human Stiles who wanted to join the supernatural pack so badly that she knew he’d considered taking the bite, would never submit to being captive. He would fight and rage and end up bloodied and bruised before giving in.

Lydia, though, she muses, poor, feeble Lydia Martin. Lydia Martin would be compliant, would do nothing and claim she was bidding her time when she was really too afraid to do anything. Actually, she knows that, deep down, she was waiting to be rescued. She’d left a clue for one of them to find, most likely Allison. She’s waiting for her friends to make the move, figuring that she can simply be the damsel in distress until they come for her. She wishes she was braver, wishes that she didn’t submit so easily. Her thoughts cloud over as she inhales a strange cologne and rolls over to find Derek coming out of the bathroom.

-x-

  
“I was in the middle of a meeting, Stiles. What do you want?” Jackson’s voice comes from Stiles’s phone, which he sets to speaker and positions in the middle of the kitchen table so that they are all able to hear.

“This is going to sound really weird,” Stiles starts, wondering which way to ask will be the quickest and the least offensive. Not that the question is offensive, but Jackson is quick to take offense at, well, pretty much anything.

Jackson’s impatience is palpable through the phone line as he snorts and says, “Of course it’s going to be weird. Everything that you do is weird, and I knew that when I picked up the phone. Let’s hear it.”

“Wait, you were in the middle of a meeting? It’s like eight in the evening where you are.”

“Negotiations aren’t going well. We’re going to have to go to court, even though he won’t stand a chance. The legal fees alone are crushing him, but I guess he’s just hoping for some kind of cut.”

“Weird.”

Exhaling slowly, Jackson agrees, “Yeah. It’s weird, but it’s not why you called. What’s up?”

Tapping his fingers against the table as he wonders whether this was really a dumb idea after all, Stiles looks over to Scott for help. His best friend isn’t helping, though. Scott is staring blankly ahead, waiting. “Is Lydia with you?”

Though he had been fairly easygoing (for his own standards, at least) only moments before, Jackson practically shuts down at the question. “Don’t call me again, Stilinski.” Barely concealed rage is thick in his voice, and Scott can tell that Jackson isn’t going to stay on the line to catch up.

“Jackson,” Scott says, saying the other wolf’s name as more command than conversation.

“Scott,” Jackson reacts, a slight apology plain in the word. Even thousands of miles apart, it’s obvious that Jackson is glad to hear his alpha. “What is Stilinkski doing? Of course Lydia isn’t with me.” He sounds wounded, offended, upset.

Getting Jackson this worked up used to take longer, Stiles reflects. He’s almost glad that Scott’s taken over the responsibility of being the one to bear the bad news.

Sighing heavily, Scott explains, “Lydia’s missing. You were the last place we thought she might have been.”

There is a pause in the air like a twitch that runs through Stiles and is gone as suddenly as it came. The unsettling realization comes over Stiles that this means Lydia is actually missing, means that they have to pull out everything they have and find her before something happens to her.

“I’ll be there in the morning.”  


-x-

  
After the phone call, Stiles actually takes the nap he’d already been planning on. He can’t let himself be tired, not when he needs to be at the top of his game right now. Not while Lydia is still missing. While he wishes he didn’t have to take the few hours of unconsciousness, he’s grateful for it all the same. Allison promises to make sure he’s up when Danny gets here, and he reluctantly agrees.

There are few things that Stiles appreciates so much as seeing someone do something they’re good at. Especially when they’re attractive. Danny Mahealani meets both of those qualifications, which is why Stiles doesn’t at all mind waking up to help him out with his computer science thing. ‘Help’ being a loosely used term.

“What have you got on her?” he asks, leaning forward to see how much of the gibberish on the monitor that he can make sense of. Lines of code cover the screen, and while Stiles isn’t a slough with technology, he’s no Danny.

His friend frowns and answers without turning to Stiles, “GPS on her phone has been turned off. The last signal I can find from it was from the second of week of class, coming from her apartment. One of her teachers makes attendance count for their chemistry class, and the last time Lydia was recorded present was that Tuesday. As for phone records, the last text she sent was to an Isaac Lahey. I’m running him through the records, and it looks like they had a psych class together. They were going on a date.”

“Lydia was going on a date?” Stiles asks. Excluding the fact that Lydia is missing, the fact that Lydia was going on a date with someone other than Jackson is the most surprising thing he’s heard within the last month.

Danny glances back at the screen and nods a few moments later. “Yeah, it was definitely a date.”

Stiles is in quiet shock, letting silence permeate the room for a short while.

Allison, standing in the doorway, finally says what they are all thinking. “Find everything you can on Lahey. Friends, family, school standing, criminal records. Get me his parent’s bank activity, what coffee shop he frequents, how many ex-girlfriends he has.”

Danny nods, fingers flying across the keyboard as he accesses things that Stiles believes are illegal and hopes won’t be traceable back to his home. “You want me to pull everything?”

Allison’s voice is calm and deadly. “I want my best friend.”  


-x-

  
There is no easy way for them to say goodbye, Lydia knows. They’d spent the last night staying up and telling each other everything they hadn’t gotten around to before. Jackson will sleep on the plane, and she now she lives alone. Now he won’t come in and interrupt her studies for pizza and a movie. Now she won’t wait until he comes home before getting ready for bed. That comes later, though. That comes after what must come first, which is this goodbye that feels far too final for either’s taste.

“You have your passport,” Lydia says, even though she already knows the answer. She has to say something.

Jackson rolls his eyes and pulls it from his pocket. “Yes, I have my passport. Just like I’ve had it the past four times you asked. I have my passport, and my boarding pass, and my driver’s license.”

She shrugs and looks away. “You’re going to make me deal with Stilinski and McCall alone.”

“You and Alison can whip them into shape without me getting in the way, then.”

Biting her lip, Lydia rolls her eyes up to the ceiling and prays that her tears don’t spill over. Jackson still must notice how shiny her eyes are, though, because he wraps an around her and pulls her to him. She lets out a shaky breath and presses her face into his neck, finally giving in as he kisses the top of her head. Her arms wrap around his frame, and she shakes softly as she tries to find the right words.

Stroking her back, Jackson says in the tone of voice that no one expects from him except for her, “I love you.”

Lydia chokes back a sob and says, “We should have said that more often.” Jackson’s flight is in an hour and he is about to go through security, which means that they are out of time and she can’t go with him any further and she didn’t think she’d feel like this, like she wants to take his hand and drag him back to the car and drive far enough away that his family can’t touch him and take him away from her. Like no banshee scream could ever have told her what having Jackson taken from her is like. Like sinking into the ugly tiled floor beneath their feet is the best way she can imagine this ending.

“We can say it more when I get back,” he tells her, lifting her chin gently so that he can kiss her, one final time. Their final goodbye before he’s across an ocean and she’s left alone. Lydia closes her eyes and lets herself believe in the promise that she knows those words are, that he’ll come back and they’ll be better than before.

The second time Jackson leaves for London, Lydia is twenty one and it feels like the end of the world.  


-x-

  
It happens like this. Lydia is meeting Isaac for a date, texts him that she’s on her way to his apartment and locks her door behind her. She can actually clean up when she gets back, because right now her living space is a mess from the lethargy that struck her when Jackson left. The lethargy that has clung to her for six long months, seemingly endless and insurmountable. It exhausts her just to think about it. Her bag from visiting her mother at the end of the break still hasn’t been unpacked, and it sits in the foyer and taunts her. Cleaning just seems like such a big task, though, one that requires far more energy than she has in her. She’ll keep putting it off until another day.

She meets Isaac in a kitschy Italian place that smells like preservatives rather than pasta, and she presses down the inner dialogue of what Jackson would have to say about the decoration that is trying too hard to be appealing. Isaac is trying, and she’s already admitted to herself that this relationship will work if she wants it to. She just isn’t sure that she wants it to.

Still, she tries to be accommodating, tries to talk about things that interest him and don’t bore her, tries to ignore the ways he does things differently than Jackson. Today has been a worse day than most, because Jackson has been gone for six full months today, half a year without him down the drain and an unknowable number of those time spans left. And while Lydia isn’t someone to remember the anniversary of every event in her life, she’d woken up to a text from Jackson about the fact and has spent the hours since trying not to throw up.

Anything else, she would have called Allison and demanded a girl’s day. Today, however, is also one of Allison’s and Scott’s anniversaries, and they are the couple to keep track and celebrate. Lydia won’t let herself ruin her best friend’s night, so she’d decided to keep her plans with Isaac. She’d had some irrational hope it would help.

Halfway through the dinner, it’s clear that it’s not helping. She’s resentful that he’s not Jackson, and he’s not sure what he’s doing wrong only that something must be wrong. Which is why, at first, Derek’s appearance at their table is a relief. She doesn’t know why Isaac’s friend is here, only that he is, and hopefully that means this date will end soon. She can go home, put on pajamas, drink the bottle of rum that’s been sitting in her liquor cabinet since forever, and resist the temptation of Skyping Jackson.

“Isaac,” Derek says in greeting, not even bothering to look Lydia’s way.

Isaac suddenly looks apprehensive in a way that she’s never seen him, and he turns to Derek just says, “Not now. Don’t do this here.” He sighs at the tablecloth and pales as Derek continues speaking.

“There were cameras. We didn’t stake the place out as well as we should have.”

Lydia cannot believe what she is hearing. She pushes back from the table as Isaac interrupts.

“They saw? Was it us on camera…?” His words trail off as Isaac looks as Lydia with realization.

“At first. We have to go,” Derek says, turning to take in Lydia as though for the first time. She wishes they had continued to not notice her. Her stomach is rolling as she digests their conversation.

“She has to come with us,” Isaac says abruptly, standing up and grabbing Lydia’s wrist tight enough to bruise.

“I’m not coming with you,” Lydia whispers, wishing for not the first time that the restaurant wasn’t so middle class. The middle class kept to their own business, they had enough drama going on in their own lives that they can’t be troubled to know what someone else was going through. The rich, though, they would have taken note of the sudden appearance of someone who hadn’t been seated. They certainly would have cared.

Derek seems surprised, says, “She hasn’t heard enough.”

Isaac turns to her and says, “We kill people.” He looks back to Derek, titling his head in such a way that the florescent beams from overhead are showing in his eyes as he finishes, “Now she’s heard enough.”  


-x-

  
The pages of information that Danny lays before Scott contain everything he could possibly find out about Isaac Lahey. “Abused by his father as a kid, his mom’s dead. He kind of moved into a friend’s house around his senior year, Derek Hale, he doesn’t go to college. They both live in town, a house they rent together off campus, about five miles from here and three miles from Lydia. Lahey did some pot in high school, but if he still uses he’s not getting it from the same guy. His dealer was locked up last year, he’s still in prison. No siblings, sparse bank activity with a debit card. My bet is that he pays for everything in cash, he makes occasional withdrawals.”

He sifts through the stack to find the one he wants and pulls that paper to the forefront. “An ex-girlfriend put in a restraining order for him last year, said that he was controlling and got violent a couple of times. Her exact words were ‘unbelievable rage’ whenever something surprised him. Get this, though. She gives an account where he threw a refrigerator. The written police report said that he shoved it over, but in the transcript of the interview they did with her, she says ‘threw’ several times. I bet we have something supernatural on our hands.”

Scott has snatched up the file on Lahey’s home life and is hungrily staring down the police reports and accounts of the situation given by neighbors, commanding for them to turn into something he can work with.

There is nothing more important to Danny than finding Lydia, which is why he ignores his phone when it starts to ring. Everything else can wait; Lydia takes the top priority. He needs to go through the rest of this with Scott while they wait for Stiles and Allison to get back from Lydia’s apartment, where they went to look through and try to figure out if Lydia returned to her apartment. Danny knows that their focus right now is crucial, because the longer they wait the more likely it is that whoever took her is getting away. He’s decided that she must have been kidnapped, because Lydia would have let them know she was okay otherwise. Anything more is too horrible for him to even begin to consider.  


-x-

  
Lydia scrambles to sit up when she sees that it’s Derek who is with her. Her already fast beating heart speeds up, because she knows that this can’t be good. They’ve finally realized that they can’t keep her with them any longer, and Derek is going to kill her and dispose of the body in such a way that even Allison will not be able to find her.  
She just wishes that she’d had the chance to tell Jackson that she loves him once more. It’s the silliest thought she could have at this time, waiting for death, and that’s when she wishes that they’d tried long distance when they had the chance. It occurs to her that she should wish for the handcuffs to be unfastened so that she actually had a chance of escape, or maybe that she should wish to not even be here in the first place.

Derek looks down at her for a moment, and then he takes a seat on the edge of the bed. “I asked Isaac to case a couple of places. I thought that might give us some time to talk.”

Blood pounds in her head, and Lydia swears that her voice of reason (which sounds uncomfortably like Stiles) is telling her to get out now. She’s nauseous with the implications of Derek’s words, because he feels comfortable enough talking about his previous kills in front of Isaac. That he prefers to do this alone can’t be a sign of anything good. In fact, her stomach is flipping just thinking about the possibilities.

“I know you’re scared. I’m going to try to help, but Isaac can’t know.”

Looking up to meet Derek’s eyes, Lydia shakes. He’s lying to her, because he can’t be thinking about letting her go free. She doesn’t even know what to say to that, but she tries to ask why. What happens instead is that she chokes on her question and whispers, “You’re going to kill me. You’re here to kill me and dispose of my body.” Stiles and Scott and Allison probably don’t even know that she’s gone, thanks to the fact that she basically stopped talking to them basically after Jackson left. They aren’t looking for her, which means that there’s no chance she’s going to get out alive unless she gets herself out.

She has been a captive for a month. For a month, she has let herself be taken from her friends and from her work, let herself be controlled by these brutes. Irrefutable rage slowly rumbles within her form, at the fact that she has been the victim of an identity theft. She is Lydia Martin, banshee, genius, warrior. She will not let two humans continue to have any say over her. She stands slowly, forming plans and rejecting them as she goes. Swallowing what little fear she has left, she exhales briefly and tries to imitate the intimidating voice Stiles uses against the foes they go up against as she tells Derek, “I want you to leave.”  


-x-

  
The flash of his American Express Platnum in the overly bright florescent lighting is something Jackson has come to be accustomed to, regardless of how many other people look at it with surprise and suspicion. It certainly gets the attention of the woman behind the counter, who blinks twice before hanging up the phone and smiling warmly at him. “Good evening, sir. How can I help you tonight?”

It’s not night, it’s morning, but he won’t let technicalities bother him. “I need a one-way to Los Angeles, as soon as possible.” He’d already checked for flights on his way over, he hadn’t purchased one because he’d had the foolish hope that Scott or Stiles would call him frantically, only moments after, saying it was all a joke. He hadn’t made a purchase and they hadn’t made the call, so he knows now that they had to have been telling the truth. A little part of him is sorry for snapping at Stiles now, because Stiles had made the logical conclusion that Lydia had perhaps come to him. He’s not sorry enough to apologize, but at least he’s sorry. He chalks it up to personal growth.

He buys a ticket for the flight that takes off at five am, which leaves him three hours to get through security and customs. Three hours should be plenty of time, considering how abandoned the airport is. The only fliers here now are the redeye travelers, waiting anxiously to head off to whatever destination they have in mind. Jackson prefers flying in the early morning. The people don’t bother anyone because they’re so tired, and the airport staff are courteous because no one is bothering them.

It’s with a sigh that he finally sinks into one of the uncomfortable chairs positioned outside the gate. The flight will take nearly twelve hours, and the time difference is eight. He’ll get into LAX somewhere near nine in the morning, and Scott or Stiles or Allison will be waiting to catch him up. Lydia is missing. Lydia is missing, and he didn’t know. The thought isn’t pleasant. He remembers telling her that he would come back. Does this count, Lydia? he wonders, resting his head in his hands. He’s coming back for her, to help her, to find her. Even when she doesn’t want to speak with people, Lydia has never one to drop communication completely without warning.

He’d spoken with Allison earlier, who had confirmed what Scott and Stiles had already told him. She asked how recently he’d spoken with Lydia, and the question had caught him off guard. The last time he’d had contact with her was a few weeks ago when he sent her a text message commenting that he’d been gone for six months. She’d responded when she woke up, a simple message that he couldn’t misunderstand. Don’t.

Jackson knew what it meant then, and he knows what it means now. Don’t remind her. Don’t talk about it. Don’t talk to her, even. His leaving had been as hard on him as it had been on Lydia, and he’d thought that maybe she was right. Maybe it’ll feel better if we don’t speak, if she isn’t so often reminded of what has been taken away from her, he’d thought. He’d respected her wishes, but now he wishes that he hadn’t.

He had promised her, the first time that he’d left, that when he came back it would be for good. His word came around to bite him in the ass five years later, and Jackson curses his adoptive father with a vehemence he’d only recently learned. If his twice removed third cousin wasn’t making them go to court, Jackson knows that he would be home by now, back in Los Angeles with Lydia. Lydia would be safe and he would not need to tell Scott to pick him up at nine and none of this would be happening. He rests his head in his hands, suddenly too tired to deal with anything.  


-x-

  
Stiles puts an arm on Allison’s shoulder as she locks the door to Lydia’s place behind them. “Scott said Danny got the intel you asked for. He also said that it looks like Isaac is a definite lead. Head back and catch up with them?”

The ball that formed in the pit of Allison’s stomach last night has not gone away, and she tries to ignore it as she agrees. “Yeah. If we have any leads, I’ll call in take out so we can work through.” Hopefully Danny found something they can work with, because Lydia’s apartment was almost devoid of clues. Her phone was missing, as was her wallet. Her car keys were still waiting by the door though, and her car was still in the driveway. The milk had expired, but Allison didn’t know when it was purchased, so she didn’t know how to draw any conclusions from that. The only true indicator of how long she’d been gone was that a loaf a white bread in the pantry had gone moldy. Stiles took that and also borrowed a more advanced chemistry set that Lydia kept in her linen closet. He said that he’d be able to figure out about how old the mold was then, which would help them know when she’d left.

They had emptied her refrigerator of all perishable items before they had a chance to rot and fill the apartment with a stench that Lydia would have inevitably blamed them for when she came back. Allison’s stomach rolls at the thought, and she forces it again. Lydia will come back. It’s inevitable.

As they approach the car, Stiles pauses as he looks back to the apartment building. “Did it seem kind of empty to you?”

It seems like a silly question at first, because Lydia’s apartment is tastefully decorated with metallic tones and pastels. She has bookends and a food processor and all kinds of adult items that the rest of them haven’t yet gotten around to purchasing. Still, Allison knows what he means by it. Lydia’s apartment was, until six months ago, Lydia’s and Jackson’s apartment. Since Jackson left, he took with him all of the things that made the apartment look like someone lived in it, like the gym bag he’d leave by the kitchen table and the jacket that was always slung over the arm of the couch. Lydia took down all of their photos, and every personal touch that reminded her of him, which was all of them. Now, the apartment is a perfectly clean living space that, except for the food in the kitchen and the laundry in the hamper, makes it seem as though it is waiting for an owner. Stiles is right, it did seem empty. The thought fills Allison with nausea, that her best friend has been struggling with Jackson’s departure for much longer than she let on.

“Let’s just go,” she says instead, because she can’t deal with this now. Being here is making her wish that she’d instead stayed with Scott to cover things with Danny.  


-x-

  
Derek stares at her blankly. He clearly wasn’t expected her to give any orders. “What?” he asks, finally, too confused to get a handle on the situation.

Telling him to leave is the farthest she had come with her plan, and now Lydia is left standing, shaking slightly as she considers her next move. Still, she’s not going to be a captive any more. Survival mode won’t be enough, and she needs to get her head in the game if she wants to have any chance of actual escape. Derek may have said that he wants to help, but she doesn’t believe him. He’s been the one to keep her here, the one to insist on handcuffs at night and tells her gory tale of his previous kills. Isaac would want to help her, she reasons, if Derek didn’t have such a power over him. Isaac still tells her how he won’t let anyone hurt her, and though she bought into it once, she knows that he doesn’t truly understand what his words mean. If he did, he would either stop saying them or let her go.

There she goes again, thinking that she needs to be let go. She realizes that her survival mode has impacted her current state of mind more than she would prefer. She doesn’t need Isaac or Derek to help her. They have helped her enough, dragging her across state lines and slaughtering those who got in the way. No, now she will learn how to free herself.

“You heard me,” Lydia tells him, trying fast to come up with something else to say. “I want you to leave.”

“I said I would help, but now isn’t the right time.” Derek looks at her as though she might have acquired a concussion recently. He tries to remember how she might have gotten one, thinks back to if she could have hit her head on the bedside table or something during the night. It doesn’t seem too likely, but he doesn’t know why else she would suddenly be acting in such a way. Any other explanations seem too farfetched. “Just listen to me, I know that you probably don’t believe me, but I can explain.”  


-x-

  
The house that Stiles and Allison return to is not the same as the one that they left. The project has expanded from the singular room it had inhabited to the rest of the home. Papers cover the walls, and on each paper there are highlighted sections they can’t make sense of. All of the information seems like overkill and also like there isn’t nearly enough. Allison doesn’t know how they’ve managed to accomplish this much in the three hours they’ve been gone, but she’s grateful that they’ve found anything at all.

“Scott, Danny, we’re back!” Stiles bellows into the entryway, looking around to see if he can see them in the kitchen or the living room. The only thing that he notices are stacks of paper that appear to have some semblance of organization, which he only gathers from the index cards with different titles that are placed on top. One on top of the table reads ‘west coast killings??’ on top of a particularly large stack. Behind that, tacked onto the wall and over a window, is a map of the United States, a trail in red traveling haphazardly through California and Nevada before going back again. He pokes he head into the kitchen to get a better view when Allison motions for him to follow her onto the second floor.

Scott is flicking through pages of data on his tablet when they reach the top of the stairs, and he opens up a Facebook profile before looking up at their entry with an expression of disbelief. “Find anything?” he asks, though his voice doesn’t sound hopeful.

Allison shrugs and takes out the moldy bread, contained in a zip-locked baggy, for his viewing pleasure. “Stiles will be playing the mad scientist later,” she says, handing the offending item off to Stiles, who accepts it distractedly, too busy looking over the GPS log that Danny has pulled up on his laptop.

Reaching up and taking her hand, Scott pulls Allison over to see what he’s been looking at. “This is Isaac Lahey. Admittedly, we’ve already found more on him than what’s here, but I figured this would be the quickest overview. People never think about what they post online.” The profile picture is of a handsome blonde man with cheekbones that could put CutCo out of business. If Allison had to guess, she’d say that he looks about their age, maybe a year younger. He’s standing on a pier, maybe a dock. It overlooks a body of water, and he stares into the camera with an unrelenting self-confidence that Allison finds inherently repulsive, though she can’t explain why.  


-x-

  
It’s Derek who gives him the bite, who lets him know what power feels like. Isaac knows he will be eternally grateful to him, that Derek saw the struggling teenager and offered a solution instead of a shoulder to cry on. He’s cried too much already, wasted energy that he didn’t know how to use. Now he never has to worry about being trapped again. No one has any power of him any longer, not even his pathetic father.

He has to swear to Derek that he feels in control before Derek even thinks about letting him off the reserve, an old plot of land that has been in the Hale family for generations. Isaac has been there for the last week, long enough for it to begin to feel like home. Going back to his own house, he believes himself. He is in control of his newfound self. He likes to think that the wolf has been inside of him the whole time, that Derek only gave it freedom to let others know what he already knew.

His hands shake as he enters the house again, hoping to avoid his father’s wrath. Maybe the old man hadn’t noticed, maybe he’d assumed Isaac had run off. Either way, he doesn’t want to be around to find out. Even though he’ll be able to heal afterwards, the thought of his father already has his skin crawling.

Turning towards the staircase, Isaac cringes as he hears someone approaching from the kitchen. He tenses, preparing himself for the confrontation that is bound to occur.

“Where the fuck have you been?” His father stands in the doorway, looming over him.

Isaac twists his mouth, tries to come up with some sort of confidence. He’s a werewolf, and he can’t even answer a question? Even the wolf inside of him has gone quiet, seemingly wanting to pass this off to the human counterpart until things blow over. Sometimes, when he is alone and safe or surrounded by people he trusts, Isaac wonders why he’s so afraid of his father. Having the man in front of him, though, the threat is very real. He’s no longer wondering about why he cowers in the older man’s wake, instead he’s just hoping it will be over soon.  


-x-

  
Scott hadn’t known what to expect from Jackson, but, whatever it had been, it hadn’t been this. Jackson steps out of the airport and glances around noncommittally before laying his eyes on Scott and approaching, rolling a suitcase behind him. He almost seems completely unchanged, and Scott would think that he’s just coming back for a usual visit if his claws weren’t on display.

Everyone else in the airport is too busy keeping an eye out for loved ones to notice Jackson’s obviously supernatural feature, and Scott figures that he’ll let Jackson off the hook for his loss of control. He thinks he would be the same, maybe worse, if it were Allison that had been taken. It isn’t Allison who’s gone, though, because if it were he’s sure he would instead be picking Allison up at the airport. Her clothes would have bloodstains and her face would look fierce and determined, because she would have gotten herself out of it.

It’s wrong for him to think that, he knows, but it feels true. Allison is a huntress, and she would have been back to them the first moment it was possible. Lydia, for all the fighting training that she’s gone through, she isn’t the fighter that her best friend is. She’s still a banshee, as much as she hates it, only able to scream out when death is near. He’s not going to think about that now, though, not when Jackson is drawing nearer and looking closer to death as he does so.

They make it to the car without words, and if Jackson throws his luggage in the trunk with more force than necessary, Scott doesn’t mention it. It isn’t until they’re driving out of the airport that Scott dares to say, “It’s good to see you.”

Looking out into the lanes of traffic, the other wolf nods. “It’s good to be back. I just wish…”

“It weren’t for this. Yeah, me too,” Scott admits, merging onto the highway.

The ride drags on, the morning rush hour having gone on longer than Jackson remembers it used to. He pauses and thinks about whether or not he should have booked a hotel. Not that he thinks Lydia will have changed the lock on him, but it feels wrong to stay there without her. Which is probably how she’s felt the last six months, he realizes.

Having taken his silence for worry, Scott says, “We’re going to find her.”

It’s apparently not the right thing to say, though, because Jackson lets out a pitiful noise. “I’ve spent every minute since you told me thinking about finding her. What if we’re too late, though?” He feels broken at the thought.

Scott is defiant just thinking about it. “We won’t be too late. Lydia has taken on everything from witches to vampires. Anything that tries to put a hand on her will draw back a nub.” He knows Jackson is worried, but he doesn’t how to comfort him right now. Anything that he thinks of to say sounds dumb or inappropriate. Because Lydia is tough, refuses to just sit there and be some beacon for death, but the banshee went into those situations with a werewolf, a huntress, and a human who was a little too crazy for his own good behind her. She didn’t go in alone those times, and Scott can’t help but be worried she’s alone this time.

Jackson seems to be thinking the same thing, but he doesn’t say anything. He just nods and closes his eyes, readjusting to the sensory experience of Los Angeles.  


-x-

  
Derek prepares to explain, because Lydia doesn’t know what else to do. She knows that she doesn’t have the power in this situation. Despite the show of courage she had moments earlier, it’s clear now that was incredibly stupid. Stupid, stupid, stupid. Lydia wishes she had never played dumb in high school, because she has a sneaking suspicion that her brain still sometimes believes it’s still supposed to act like it doesn’t know what’s going on. So she realizes that her outburst shouldn’t have been done, sits on the bed, and gets ready to listen to Derek as he details the reasons for her life turning into something out of a B-lister’s pathetic attempt at a thriller novel.

Sitting on the bed across from her, Derek sizes Lydia up as he considers what he can tell her. The truth would be the best option, and his mother would favor that. Even though it would mean disclosing the world of supernatural creatures onto this poor, human girl who has been sucked into the realm by accident. Laura wouldn’t tell her anything, would free her and take responsibility for Isaac’s actions. That would leave Lydia with questions, and it means that Derek would have to actually face the monster that he created. He doesn’t favor Laura’s choice, and his mother’s is too open ended for his taste. Really, he just wants to let Lydia go. Knock her out, leave her on a friend’s porch for someone to find in the morning. And then he would leave Isaac, maybe go to New York and go back to being alone.

Peter wouldn’t tell her the truth, nor would he deal with Isaac. Peter would spin a story that would be just plausible enough to get him by, to where Lydia would be go free and not try to find them again for prosecution. And Derek isn’t nearly as crafty as Peter, but maybe he can get her to only go after Isaac when she does go back to stories about the killers who toted her around with them like cargo. That’s the option he goes with, even though he remembers his uncle as slimy and his mother as a shining example of moral conduct. Derek doesn’t have that kind of spine, not since he’s been without a pack, but he tries to give her as much of the truth as he can.

“When I met Isaac, I was alone. My family died years ago, in a fire that was set by my girlfriend. The one left besides me was my sister. We weren’t in the house when the fire caught. She died years later, at the hands of my uncle.” He swallows, trying to figure out how much he can tell Lydia without giving everything away. He doubts she’d believe him, even if he did tell her. “My uncle went mad because of the fire, he recovered enough from it that he was physically well but not mentally. He killed my sister,” he mumbles, the words still not feeling real. They never have, they never do, no matter how often he thinks them. After the fire, Peter hadn’t been the same man he’d been before, and Derek doesn’t feel bad that he was the one to kill his uncle, in the end.

Nothing about this is normal, Lydia knows. She halfheartedly wonders what she’s doing, but then she remembers that she’s doing what she needs to. She needs to sit when either asks her to sit, listen for anything that could help her, and, above all, she needs to keep herself safe. Until she has a reasonable chance of escape, there’s no need to make things worse for her than the already are. Derek’s words roll over her, and she takes them in slowly. Reluctantly, she tries to picture it. She imagines it was a big family, because that makes Derek more tragic and easier to sympathize with. She wants to be able to sympathize with him, for some reason. Even though he’s the one who insists on having her in handcuffs and the one who tells her gruesome tales in a voice that she knows can’t be lying. She wants to believe him.

After trying to figure out where to go from there, Derek says, “I found Isaac. He was alone, too. His father abused him, his mother had died a long time before, and no one could help him. I tried to. I tried to be a friend, told him to tell the authorities. They didn’t listen.” He hasn’t thought when he first met Isaac in a long time. Helping Isaac out of the grave he’d dug himself now seems to represent a much bigger metaphor to Derek. He’d created Isaac, he’d given him the bite and he’d helped him when he’d decided to start leaving a horde of corpses in his wake. At first, it had been people who had their deaths coming to them. Serial rapists and other abusers, people Isaac couldn’t look at without his eyes changing. Then it had been a slippery slope, starting with Derek insisting on checking these people out to make sure they were the creeps that the wolves thought they were. It escalated to now, where Isaac sees someone and nods, and that’s all the background check they need. Thinking of how he only has himself to blame for this has Derek almost shifting. Almost. He has to let something out, and he settles for gripping his hands into the blanket before letting his claws come out somewhat.

“Isaac’s situation was getting worse, and I taught him how to fight. He said he wanted to know how because it would make him feel better about himself, even though he wasn’t going to use it. I didn’t think he would have used it.” Derek wants to believe himself, wants to think that he genuinely offered Isaac the bite for the confidence it would give him. He wants to think that, then, he hadn’t known that Isaac was capable of killing his father.

He pauses, too locked up in his own thoughts of the true events to notice how Lydia is taking the modified tale. Her eyes are squinting softly in concentration, thinking about how quiet and un-self-assured Isaac had seemed when she first met him. Abused, she thinks to herself. It makes more sense than she’d like to admit, but she doesn’t want to hear this. She doesn’t want for Derek to make her like them. She doesn’t want for this to be some trick of theirs, tell her the stories that she’ll find the easiest to believe so that she won’t resist them so much. Maybe they’ve even convinced themselves that, if she’s told the right things, that she’ll even join them on their psychotic rampages. Maybe they don’t want her to join them, maybe they want her to be waiting for them to back, for her to patch up their injuries and cook for them before seeing them off again, like some demented resemblance of a mother who sends her children off to school after bandaging up their scratches from the previous recess.

Lydia knows what Derek’s going to say before he says it, listens with an absolutely blank expression as he tells her what she knew was coming as soon as he said that Isaac was abused by his father. “He killed his dad. They got into an argument, nothing unusual for them, and his father started screaming and shoving him around.” He breathes deeply, trying to picture Isaac dragging his claws along the neck of the man who’d raised him. His own claws protrude more as he thinks about it, but he can’t be bothered to think about that now.

There’s nothing quite like fresh blood on your hands to make you want more of it. Lydia knows that, remembers the heyday that Beacon Hills was during high school. She’d ended up going out with Scott, Allison, and Stiles, more times than she can remember. They had killed many things, most of them creatures, but some of them human. Scott, True Alpha Scott, had never wanted to kill, had never taken a life. Allison hadn’t been quite as dedicated to the cause. She’d put an arrow through anything that threatened someone she cared about, and Lydia still thinks that makes the most sense.

Lydia had only made two kills during their excursions, but she remembers with perfect detail the feeling of power that flooded through her veins immediately after. The memory itself is almost enough to make her feel drunk. The first thing she’d killed had been a witch. The witch had come to the town, drawn by the stories of a True Alpha of a pack of humans and a banshee. She’d been harmless at first, a low priority on the ‘Supernatural Shit To-Do List’ that Stiles updated for them. Mostly it had been charms that took small amounts of energy from people, but that people hadn’t been hurt. They would sleep for a day or two and wake up perfectly fine, not remembering what had happened. Then that hadn’t been enough for her, and she’d started to collect people to have a continuous power supply. Her true mistake had been choosing Allison as an energy source. Lydia had seen her best friend, unconscious besides strangers as the witch began a chant, and she hadn’t been able to control herself. She’d snapped the witch’s neck before Scott could make even a noise of protest, and the only thing that made her drop the body was when Allison had grabbed her shoulder and pulled her up for a hug.

She supposes, in the end, that killing is as addictive as anything else is. Lydia at least understands that addiction is something that you can’t control. She remembers the Sheriff, after his wife died and before Stiles was brave enough to make his father see the type of mess that he’d created. Addiction doesn’t leave anyone to blame, but killing does. She can still find it in her to blame Isaac for the deaths he’s caused and for the deaths Derek let him partake in. Derek isn’t continuing the story any longer, but she finishes it in her head. Isaac had come to Derek, guilty and repentant for his actions, and they ran. That was when the problem came up, because it turned out that one kill hadn’t been enough. None of them would ever be enough, and she suspects that it had only been a series of forged records and an attempt at returning to normalcy that had resulted in Isaac being at UCLA.

There’s one thing that doesn’t add up, though. Something feels off, and Lydia knows that she’s crazy for expecting the truth from a killer. She’s seen Silence of the Lambs too many times, though, and she still feels like Derek at least owes her his honesty. Her mind reviews the information, combines it with what she’s seen from Isaac and Derek in the past weeks, and Lydia can’t shake the feeling that something important it being withheld from her.

It isn’t until that she takes her eyes off of Derek’s eyes that it clicks. She’s looking at Derek’s hands, which are pressing into the cheap hotel blankets with the hope that he’ll have more control over himself by the time he releases them. And while the blankets mostly are bunched around where his fingers gather the material, Lydia can’t quite believe her eyes when she sees what she thinks she sees. Her heart picks up in speed as she takes in her view. Now things are making sense, even though she doesn’t want them too. The flashes of light in Isaac’s eyes weren’t reflections after all, she realizes. Derek looks at her, confused. That makes sense, now, because he can hear her heartbeat, because of course he can.

Everything is coming together is the worst way that she could have ever imagined, and Lydia can’t help the strangled noise that breaks out of her throat as she passes out, both confident in and terrified by the fact that her captors are werewolves.  


-x-

  
Once they’ve uncovered everything that can about Isaac, they start looking into his associates. It’s a series of dead ends, the kind of work that Danny believes is appropriate for this time of night. It’s somewhere near two in the morning, but he’s not sure. He knows it past midnight and before three, though. Scott and Allison went to bed an hour ago, they need to pick up Jackson in the morning. He and Stiles are left, surfacing the Internet for clues. At this point, Danny would go for anything that would give him the slightest hope.

The start of the search had been easy, pulling up Lahey’s Facebook page and organizing the list of friends by how many they’re interacted with. From there, he and Stiles have been going down the list, steadily crossing off everyone they’d come across so far. It isn’t until halfway down the list that he come to the realization that makes him want to throw his laptop out the window. “Stiles,” he says suddenly, breathlessly.

The boy in question raises his head slowly. The blue light that his monitor is casting on his face only serves to make the bags under his eyes even more pronounced. It’s not a good look. “Yeah?”

“We’ve only been looking at Facebook friends.” Danny can’t believe he didn’t think of this sooner.

“Yeah.” Stiles clearly has no idea where his friend is going with this.

“We haven’t found anyone that Lahey would trust enough, right?” His fingers are flying across the keyboard, because now he’s onto something. After having to give up on so many other leads, this idea finally feels right. “Not everyone is on Facebook, and even if they are, you’re not directly connected to everyone. What about people you know that you haven’t ever bothered to find on Facebook?” Tapping the mouse a few times, he pulls up a list of names. With a few more key presses, he removes Facebook friends and organizes them in a way that Stiles can’t make sense of, even though he’s trying to follow.

Danny’s gone long enough without talking that Stiles has zoned out again, still looking through the Facebook profiles of people he doesn’t know, hoping that one of them will be able to give him some kind of information that has to do with Lydia’s whereabouts. He feels so heavy. The nap he’d taken earlier hadn’t been nearly long enough for his liking, and when he blinks up at Danny again, an hour has passed and his screen is still on the profile of someone who won’t be able to help them.

“I found someone,” Danny says finally, looking triumphant. He spins in the chair once, a delighted and satisfied grin on his face. By the time Stiles gets over to him, the screen is showing him a picture of a brooding male who is decidedly not unattractive. The computer scientist nods decisively at the image, turning to Stiles with the look of triumph as he says, “Meet Isaac Lahey’s roommate, Derek.”  


-x-

  
Lydia comes to later, finds herself staring into Derek’s brown eyes. Well, her brain supplies, they’re brown for now. She knows that they could change at any moment, and she wonders vaguely if they would be red or blue. Her breathing hitches as she remembers everything that Derek had told her, and the realization that she’d happened upon before falling unconscious. She still scolds herself for passing out without a serious reason for distress. She hasn’t done that in years. She didn’t even do that when she discovered Jackson had been the Kamina before he was a werewolf. There’s no reason for her to be dramatic now, even if she is a banshee who is currently the kidnapee to two werewolves.

“Are you alright? I know it’s a lot to take in,” Derek says gently, something that makes Lydia want to scream.

She debates keeping the information to herself, but she also suspects that they suspect her of having some knowledge. Even though she hasn’t hung out with Scott in a long time, she knows that she still must smell slightly of him and slightly of the Mountain Ash that Scott always complains Allison reeks of. It must be a confusing sensory experience for them, Lydia supposes. In the end, she feels better about the prospect of telling Derek rather than Isaac. “I know you’re a werewolf,” she whispers.

Whatever Derek had been expecting her to say, it hadn’t been that. The shock shows on his face for a moment before he gains his composure again, and he stares blankly at her. “We knew someone in your life was a wolf. We didn’t know if you knew, though.”

Derek’s story about teaching Isaac to fight get reshuffled in her mind until it makes sense, and then she sighs. Of course. “You gave Isaac the bite so that he could heal faster, at the very least. He became a killer, and neither of you had anything to stick around for, so you left.” As she speaks the words, she knows how true they are. If Scott wasn’t so opposed changing anyone, she knows that he would at least consider offering the bite to someone in that situation. Someone who lived a life that needed a way out. It makes sense, at least until the consequences of Derek’s actions are remembered. Isaac isn’t just any werewolf, he’s a killer.

“It seemed like the best thing I could do for him. I gave him a choice, let him see what I could do.” Derek doesn’t know why he’s telling her this, but he can recognize that this entire scenario is wrong. He’s aided Isaac in her kidnapping, and since he hasn’t yet freed her, it seems liked the least he can do is offer the truth.

She nods, closing her eyes to picture it better. Who would refuse that? What person, when faced with the choice of continuing the cycle of suffering or having the choice to end it, wouldn’t take the chance to become stronger? Derek was alone, and a lone wolf is a terrible thing. It makes her ache for Jackson, alone in London, waiting to be able to come back to his pack. Scott does have a pack, even though the only beta werewolf was across a continent and an ocean. Right now, it’s made of a huntress, a banshee, and whatever the hell Stiles is. But being completely without a pack, not even having the option of a pack to go back to, that must make a wolf crazy. She can only imagine how Derek must have felt, how desperate he must have been to have other wolves to run with. “Were there others you offered the bite to?”

His face is closed off for a moment before he nodding. “Two others. They died.”

“The bite didn’t take?” Lydia’s heard of that happening before, when the person wasn’t healthy enough to make it through the process before the werewolf healing kicked in.

“The bite took. There were… Complications. Now it’s just Isaac and I.”

They sit in silence as Derek remembers his other betas and as Lydia thinks about pack, and how losing beats must hurt. Both Scott and Jackson have mentioned that the separation takes a toll on each of them. If a member of the pack dies… Lydia can’t imagine how that feels. A constant punch in the gut, she suspects, or like a blow to the head. Something constant, that might dim with time but wouldn’t heal.

Something else is bothering her, and it isn’t until she thinks about pack as a sense of family that she remembers the question she’d had earlier that she hadn’t gotten a chance to ask. “What happened to your uncle?”

Twisting his face, Derek nods. “I killed him. He killed his own niece. He didn’t know what he was doing. Laura went to him because she thought that he might have been killing innocents. She was right, of course, but she thought she could handle him on her own. When I found out he murdered her, I tracked him down. He wasn’t the man I knew, he’d been changed. I killed him, technically, but I think the fire had already done that.”

As much as Lydia respects Scott’s ‘no killing’ rule, she can’t help but feel that Derek did the right thing. Her sense of vengeance has always been a little twisted, but she knows that is justice, not vengeance. She’d kill the person who wronged her in that way. So help her, if she ever meets the cousin who made Jackson back to London she’s going to flay him alive and set him on fire. She thinks of the only person who truly wronged her, and tries to come up with something that qualifies as justice in terms of Peter Hale. Even the most gruesome things that she can imagine seem far too tame.  


-x-

  
Stiles and Danny wake up to the smell of breakfast burritos. Stiles pries his cheek off the keyboard, which it had been sealed to with the help of his saliva. He blinks at Scott, who passes him a to-go bag from their favorite place down the road. “You’re a god, buddy,” he practically moans, reaching out desperately. “Where’s Allison?”

“She went to Lydia’s. She thought she might have remembered something,” Scott answers before leaning down and kissing his best friend’s cheek, passing off the bag as he turns to where Jackson is offering food to a sleeping Danny. The human opens his eyes slowly, adjusts to the sight of his werewolf best friend for a split second, and then yanks Jackson down into a crushing hug. Crushing on Danny’s end, it looks like Jackson might be putting a little more of his wolf into the hug than he thinks.

It feels like a reunion, which makes Scott remember that they’re all here before Lydia is not. “Did you guys find anything last night?” He hopes that they’ve found something, because at this point he doesn’t know what to look for anymore. Everything looks the same, and none of the questions he asks get answers that lead anywhere.

Danny jerks at the question and scrambles to pull his laptop up. He flicks through his tabs until he finds the right one, and then he pulls up a profile. Not the Facebook kind, but the kind that Danny has composed himself, that contains every piece of information he’s been able to find on this guy that doesn’t look familiar to Scott.

Stiles and Jackson exchange a brief hug while Danny finds what he’s looking for, Stiles commenting on how Jackson looks worse than he does for once. It’s funny for a short moment, until Jackson says, “Wait until you find that the love of your life has been kidnapped.” The moment falls completely flat, and Stiles’s face looks how it does whenever he sees an ASPCA commercial. Jackson seems to feel bad for a split second though, because he claps Stiles on the back and nods solemnly.

As the tension slowly leaves the room, Danny nods, finally having found the exact piece of information he was looking for. “We think Lahey might have a traveling companion. Meet Derek Hale, Peter Hale’s nephew.”

The effect of his words is instantaneous. Jackson’s eyes are blue and his claws are on display. Scott’s eyes are red, though he’s managed to keep his claws in check in a show of composure that he didn’t know he had in him. Stiles chokes on his burrito, which is surprising to Scott, because he assumed he’d already heard all of Danny’s findings. Jackson is breathing heavy, trying very hard to anchor himself. Reaching out, Scott puts a hand on his shoulder.

Stiles finally gets over his choking fit and forces himself to breathe slowly. “Peter Hale as in Peter Hale who basically possessed Lydia so that she could resurrect his dead body. Peter Hale who we’ve never been able to track down? Peter Hale, who made off with his freedom and left Lydia with night terrors?”

Jackson is the first to speak in the silence that follows, but he says the only thing they need to hear. “We’re going to kill these guys.”

Everyone looks to Scott in that moment. Jackson can’t help himself, he doesn’t give a shit if the alpha is still riding his moral high horse. He’ll slaughter them himself if he has to, in fact, he wants to. Even so, he’ll feel guilty about it if Scott disapproves, even if he does understand. Which is why Jackson lets out the biggest breath of them all when Scott merely nods and says, “There’s not another option.”  


-x-

  
Lydia now understands Derek, but it doesn’t mean that she trusts him. She knows that he swore to help her, but he’s had ample opportunities to do so before and hasn’t taken then. There’s no reason for him to suddenly change his mind, no reason besides the overwhelming guilt that she hopes is eating him alive.

For her own part in things, Lydia is trying to figure out where this leaves her. While she had been moderately prepared to take on two humans should the right situation have presented itself in which she would have the advantage, two werewolves is a different story entirely. Even supposing that Derek doesn’t fight her, she won’t count on him to fight Isaac, either. That leaves her taking on Isaac alone. Better odds, yes, but she only ends up less dead whenever she tries to run the probability of making it out alive. Banshees are basically powerless, really, because Lydia has never counted ‘dead body finder’ as one of her favorite skills. It’s terrible, because almost all the other figures she’s come across in the lore have powers. The banshee just screams when there’s a death. It’s dreadfully boring, really. She wishes they were more interesting.

There was one story, ancient and unreliable, that told of a banshee who traveled with those she wished dead and kissed them at the moment of their death. Lydia had taken it then as something to laugh at, to find amusement in the poor creature who was so vindictive to travel with those she hated, just to have the satisfaction of the scream at the end of the journey. Now it comes to mind, and it gives her an idea. There’s no guarantee it will work, and she has no evidence from her own experience to back it up, but she’ll take even the smallest sliver of hope at this point. She’ll make it work.  


-x-

  
Allison pulls up outside of Lydia’s apartment building fingers the key in her hand nervously. This time will be the third time that she’s had to use the key without Lydia’s knowledge and will be the first time the she feels guilty over it. She’d truly forgotten to check when she’d come with Stiles, and the time before that she’d been hoping that it wouldn’t be necessary. Now she sighs, climbing the stairs with a heavy heart.

Opening the door slowly, she knows that Stiles is right. The apartment feels empty, devoid of a life source. Lydia usually kept music blaring whenever she was inside, and often those sounds were accompanied by the smell of whatever she had gotten adventurous with in the kitchen. Allison misses coming in to see that, even though it’s been a while since that’s happened. She’s only come over to that maybe twice since Jackson left, and even then it had seemed lacking, like Lydia was only trying to keep up appearances.

She and Lydia had talked about it once, long ago, as Allison lay in bed recovering from the stab wound that had almost ended her life. She’d woken up to Lydia in the chair beside her, a determined smirk upon her face. “I knew you’d wake up,” she’d said, her voice full of confidence. “The doctors kept saying that there wasn’t a big chance, kept advising your dad to end the life support. They thought you were finished, but your dad knows you better than that. He knows you’re a fighter.” Her best friend had grasped her hand so tight that it had hurt, and then Lydia had said, “I know you’re a warrior.”

She’d recovered slowly from that point, and Lydia told her in the form of an offhand comment as they attempted to ignore the supernatural by starting out for a girl’s weekend, “I was going to kill myself if you hadn’t woken up.”

It was all Allison could do to not run off the road. She still remembers how Lydia had said it, in the same tone that she might have referenced a past homework problem. “What?” she’d asked, breathless as though the wind had been knocked out of her.

“I would have. Maybe drown myself in a river, so no one would have to check up on me at my house and have to find my body.” She spoke as though she’d planned it all out.

It’s easily the worst conversation she can ever remember sharing with Lydia. She had seemed so sure, so factual. Finally, when they’d gotten to their destination, Allison got the courage to ask her, “How would we have known it was a suicide? If your body went down the river.”

Lydia turned to her friend and sighed before saying, “I would have written a note, left it somewhere just hard enough to find. I think I would have left it in my nightstand, edged up under one of the boards at the top.

At the time, the conversation had seemed so surreal that Allison had tried to push it as far from her mind as she could. She would tell herself that it didn’t matter, that Lydia was alive and well. Occasionally, though, she would go by the Martin’s and Lydia wouldn’t be there. Ms. Martin would still invite her in to wait, though, and each time Allison had checked the nightstand drawer. She’d been so paranoid about it at one point that she made Lydia swear to never put a suicide note anywhere else. The memory only comes back when Allison woke up that morning from a nightmare where she found the note and it weighed as much as a dumbbell would have.

All those times at the Martins where she’d felt for the note had been nothing, Allison knows, because then she had only been checking out of self-assurance. There wasn’t a chance that Lydia actually would have had a reason, so there hadn’t been any reason for her to worry. Now, though, her heart is pounding at the very thought. Because she’s been given the time to come to the conclusion that it possible. Even more than possible, some sick part of herself says that it’s probable.

She can’t go inside the bedroom. The apartment itself is one thing, the bedroom where she might find her best friend’s suicide note is another entirely. Instead, she stands outside the door, the insane hope blooming in her that Lydia will come home in a few minutes, will burst through the door as though she has merely been exploring the streets. She wants it to be true that she even imagines that Lydia would come in with a brand new outfit on, just “something she’d picked up” from a store that has prices Allison can’t even think about. Lydia puts on the pop music that she loves so much, and from there they dance in the kitchen and make dinner.

Allison wants it to be true so badly that it hurts, but she has to face reality. Lydia hasn’t danced to pop music with her in months, probably not since Jackson left. It kills her to think about, but she knows it’s true. Lydia had been okay for the first month or so after Jackson left, and then she hadn’t been. She hadn’t asked her at the time, figuring it was a lapse in the grieving process. Now, she wishes she’d asked. She wishes she’d pushed for an answer, wrangled it out of the redhead until Lydia was better and didn’t seem so far away.

Finally, she shoves open the bedroom door and glances around. It’s exactly as it was when she came in with Stiles, and she makes her way in before noticing that the drawer to the nightstand is slightly ajar. It doesn’t have to mean anything, it doesn’t, just that Lydia uses her nightstand. The sight still makes Allison go cold before diving across the bed to reach it, yanking it open and shoving her hand into the drawer, feeling the top of it anxiously.

The only thing under her fingers is the wood that the nightstand is made of, and Allison chokes back a sob as she cradles her head in her heads in relief. She is so thankful, so incredibly thankful, for a glorious moment. She reaches back in to put what remains of her fears to rest, only to have her heart stop as it brushes again a scrap of paper. Slowly, reluctantly, she pulls on the edge of the paper until she pulls out a pink sticky note that reads Isaac Lahey and Derek ??, track my watch. Then there’s a number that Allison can’t make sense of, but she knows it’s important. She’s still thankful when she locks the apartment door, calling Scott and saying, “Hey, I think I might have a lead.”  


-x-

  
Danny plus the numbers from Lydia’s note into his computer and it seems to do something, because he punches the air and slings Allison into a hug. “You found her,” he says, near tears.

She feels the same, feels her legs give out from under her as she cries a little in relief. They’re going to bring her home. They’re going to bring her home.

The rest of them come in at the noise, Jackson, Scott, and Stiles. All Danny has to do is nod before Stiles has leapt over the desk and is studying the monitor. “Sacramento,” he says, disbelief evident in his voice.

Scott stands in the doorway, dangling car keys. “We can be there in six hours.”

“We’ll be there in five,” Allison says, walking over and taking the keys. She’s not going to put off saving her best friend for any longer than she absolutely has to. If that means foregoing meals and rest stops, so be it. The fact that Lydia has had to wait as long as she has is practically a crime, and Allison won’t be responsible for making her wait much longer.

Danny stays back, choosing to stay and update them on the watch’s GPS signal in case anything should change. He leans into the car and hugs all of them goodbye, lingering with a hand on Jackson’s shoulder. “Bring her home,” he says unnecessarily. He knows that Jackson will bring Lydia back, no matter what it takes.

His best friend’s eyes flash blue for a terrible moment before he nods. “I’ll call you when we have her,” he says, nodding as he pushes any other possibilities from his mind.  


-x-

  
Lydia wakes up with a scream caught in her throat. Not a full-fledged shriek, not yet. It’s only a start, but it’s going to grow, and for the first time she relishes the fact that she’s a banshee. It’s a long shot, but she’s going to make it work. She’ll need the right time, of course, but she’s willing to wait. She’s been with them for almost four weeks, what’s another day? Another day until freedom, getting to sleep without handcuffs that chafe her wrists and arms, getting to walk outside without Isaac or Derek touching her to make sure she doesn’t run. She can make it another day if she has to, and she will. There’s no reason for her to hurry and mess up the timing.

Derek said that he’d free her, but she hasn’t had a chance to be alone with him since then. Besides, she’s ready. She’s going to free herself, because she’s done with relying on other people to rescue her.

In the end, it’s the scream that lets her know. She spends a day swallowing it down, eyes flickering among the many things they leave out around her, trying to discern what she’ll need when the time does come. Finally, finally, though the time comes. She’s feeling positively lightheaded from keeping it in, and that’s what does it. Isaac is charge of her for the day, it seems, because he’s been the one escorting her between places. Really, it’s a wonder they’ve been able to keep her as a captive for this long, because they are terrible kidnappers.

“You look pale. Are you alright?” Isaac asks her, a hand on the small of her back as they get back into the hotel. Derek has left them for the moment, though he mentioned he’d be back soon. She’s got about an hour before they handcuff her, so it’s now or never. Not having Derek makes it easier, in all honesty. The scream is as strong as it’s ever going to be, but once she starts there won’t be any going back.

Over the month she’s been with them, she’s learned that Isaac likes her best and treats the kindest when she acts weak. So she tries to make her eyes come unfocused as she nods carefully, before falling back. He catches her, of course he does, and when she blinks slowly at him, his face is so close to hers. She could not have planned this better if they had a script.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” she whispers. Her voice comes out scratched from keeping the scream in, and even now it’s painful to speak without truly letting it out. “I’m so tired,” she continues, trying to think of the best way to segue into the true escape.

As if on cue, Isaac helps her stand up again, but he keeps his face in close proximity. “Are you getting enough sleep? I’m so sorry that you have nightmares.” And, astonishingly enough, he does seem sorry about it.

Lifting her hand gently to caress his cheek, Lydia sighs, making sure to barely open her mouth when she does so. Her throat feels like it’s been scratched raw, and she won’t risk losing the scream now. Not now, when she’s so close she can taste it. “You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”

“Tell me.” Her helpless routine has worked perfectly, and Lydia cannot help but be angry at herself for not thinking of this sooner and getting out earlier. “I’ll believe you,” he whispers.

This is her shot. She stretches just the tiniest bit before their lips are touching. The kiss clearly takes Isaac by surprise, but he isn’t objecting. He’s the one to deepen the kiss, tilting her head back to do so. Lydia opens her mouth, breathes her scream into him, and feels free, lighter than air, as though she is totally and completely weightless. When she breaks apart from her, she smiles at him like the big bad wolf and makes sure all of her teeth are showing so that it looks positively feral. She’s been looking forward to this moment.

“I’m a banshee,” she tells him, watching as he makes sense of the statement. Suddenly, she knows, all of her screams make sense. All of the information clicks in place for him, and he stares at her in confusion and with a little bit of awe. “Banshees scream before a death happens, or as it happens. I’ve always thought it was strange, that we can’t really do anything. Death just happens to find us. Coming with you and Derek, though, I’ve had a lot of time to think about it. Time to think about myself, and banshees, and power. I’ve been thinking about it, though, and I was thinking about it all wrong, all this time. Death does not find us. We summon it,” she whispers.

She knows it is true as soon as she speaks the words, because Isaac’s eyes show clarity and then nothing. The scream that breathed into him did as she willed, and a sense of power overcomes her. His legs crumble beneath him, and she knows that she is in the room with a dead man. The thought makes her so happy she could cry, and she looks around the room in a new light. She is a free woman once again.

She grabs her wallet from the dresser and leaves the room, the most curious sense of freedom following in her wake. As she takes the stairs to the lobby, she sees Derek about to start up them. He sees her and freezes, makes the correct conclusion about Isaac’s fate and stares at her with dead eyes as she says, “Bury him so he won’t come back” as she passes him. Lydia’s had too many problems with resurrection as it is.

There’s nothing stopping her from killing him too, a voice inside of her whispers, but she pushes it aside. She doesn’t blame Derek for Isaac’s actions. In fact, she hopes that he can finally find some peace. She wants him to be okay, and when she comes with the pack to make sure that Isaac’s buried properly she’ll stop them from hunting him down. He doesn’t need anyone coming after him.

She walks to the café she saw earlier without breaking stride, looks past the woman at the counter, puts in a few quarters at the pay phone, and dials the only number that she knows by heart.

“Hello?”

Jackson’s voice alone makes Lydia realize how much she’s missed him, and she chokes back a sob as she says, “God, I love you.” She feels like crumbling onto the ground and listening to him talk about nothing for forever.

“Lydia,” Jackson says, and it sounds like a breathless sob through the phone line. It sounds like release, or Heaven. It sounds like the only thing that Lydia ever wants to hear again. “We’re on our way.”

Sinking into the nearest chair, she exhales and nods before telling him, “Tell Scott I’m in Sacramento.”

“I know. We’re on our way,” Jackson repeats. She’s never going to get over this relief at hearing his voice.

“We?”

“Stiles called. I got here this morning, we left for Sacramento at noon, so we’re about half an hour out. I can’t believe you called.”

“I can’t believe you answered,” she whispers, and she knows that’s a terrible thing to say, but it’s true. She’d been hopeful, but had honestly planned on leaving him a message to call Scott and send them to her. She waits for his response, but there’s a scuffle on the other end and when the next sound comes from the other line it’s Scott’s voice that carries across.

“Are you safe?” he demands, sounding near violent about it.

Her alpha, always worried about pack. She can’t imagine what he’s gone through since they found out she was missing. “I’m in a coffee shop, alone.” Hearing his voice is almost as much of a relief as hearing Jackson’s.

“Where is Lahey?”

“Dead. I killed him,” she says, feeling self-conscious as she glances around the shop to make sure that none of the customers have heard her.

He pauses, clearly surprised. “Lahey was…”

“A werewolf. I know. I killed him.” The triumph she felt when Isaac crumpled in on himself is no longer thrumming through her veins, and Lydia is left feeling tired. Not the tired that she’s come to remember the last few years, tired from staying up late studying or partying. No, no, this is the tired that is from fighting for her life. This is the tired that she’d almost forgotten about, it had been so long.  


-x-

  
Lydia sits in the coffee shop and stays on the phone until she runs out of quarters, and when the line is about to run out she tries to not hear how panicked Jackson sounds. If what they said is true, she’ll be going to see them in fifteen minutes. She thinks about getting a coffee, but she wants to sleep. And, yeah, her friends are going to grill her on everything as soon as they get here, but she plans to curl up against Jackson on the way back to Los Angeles and lose herself to sleep.

The barista comes over a few minutes after the phone call, offering her a small coffee meekly. “It’s on the house,” she says. She looks at Lydia with eyebrows drawn together in concern before sitting down and joining her.

It’s not that she’s starved for human interaction, but Isaac and Derek had been the ones to talk with anyone. She had been commanded to sit by and not even look another person in the eye, Derek snarling in her ear all the possible consequences. Just thinking about it sends a shiver down her spine. Looking at the young woman, Lydia gives a watery smile as she accepts the small kindness, bringing up a hand to reach for the cup and gasping when she gets a good look at her arm.

There’s a ringed bruise around her wrist, which is bonier than she’d realized. Actually, there are bruises all along her arm. The other one, too. The ones on her wrists are from the handcuffs, but the only sense she can make of the others is from the strong grips that Isaac had on her occasionally. She doesn’t even want to think about what she face could look like.

“You should leave him,” the barista continues, staring into Lydia’s eyes with a fierceness that the redhead wishes she felt. “Do you have anyone you can call?”

Of course. She looks like the victim of domestic violence. It makes sense. Lydia swallows and lets out a shaky laugh that she doesn’t know if she means. “I just did leave him. And yeah, I called my friends. They’re coming now, actually.” She doesn’t know why she feels so tired.

The woman nods and pauses. “Do you want me to wait with you until they get here?”

This is what she needed, more than leaving Isaac dead at her feet and more than hearing Jackson’s voice over a crinkly phone line. She needed to know that there are still people who are good. Tears fill her eyes, unbidden, and she shakes her head slowly. “No. No, thank you,” she whispers, nearly choking on the emotion that has overcome her.

The barista resumes her position behind the counter after putting a hand gently on Lydia’s shoulder. Lydia sits and stares at the coffee mug in silent wonder, occasionally dabbing at her eyes to stop her tears from running over.

It’s only when she hears a car door slam that she looks away from the steaming beverage, turning to the window in equal parts anticipation and concern. She can only hope that Derek will keep his promise and not come after her, because she’s going to kill him, too, if he comes for her. She knows it won’t be hard to find her, she didn’t try to cover her scent at all. Her heart pounds as she takes in the car that’s parked outside.

Scott makes it to the door first, but the rest of them aren’t far behind. Lydia has never felt so grateful to see her friends before, and she finds that she can’t even stand up she’s so surprised to see them. It hadn’t felt real, none of this had felt real until now. Now that they’re rushing in to take her home, all her emotions well up and suddenly she’s helpless to the tears she had been trying to keep away.  


-x-

  
The night drive has sapped nearly everyone of their energy, especially Lydia. She’s been sleeping since they pulled onto the interstate, and everyone has been trying to give her room. When they pull into the apartment complex, everyone else goes to get out of the car when Jackson asks them to stop. Looking down at the banshee’s sleeping form, he says, “She needs her rest. I’ll call you guys tomorrow.”

Allison and Stiles aren’t pleased, but he didn’t think they would be. Scott is the one he’s talking to, no them, and it’s Scott that he keeps his eyes on, waiting for the alpha’s acceptance. Nodding slowly, Scott agrees, reaching for Jackson’s shoulder. “Call us whenever. Keep us updated.” He’s not about to let a member of his pack feel like he’s not available.

With that, Jackson carries Lydia out of the car and up the stairs to their apartment, or, her apartment. The smell of another wolf hits him as he opens the door. It’s one of the scents that clings to Lydia now, and he’s almost dizzy with anger at the realization. It’s only when her hand closes gently around his that he breathes easier.

He carries her to bed and rests her gently on the mattress, moving the blankets to cover her. When he kisses her forehead, the hand she had around his wrist clamps tighter and she freezes. “Jackson?” she whispers almost fearfully, eyes squeezed shut.

“I’m here,” he answers, heart aching as he thinks about what she must have been afraid to wake up to.

Her hand loosens but doesn’t let go, and she opens her eyes slowly. “Stay with me,” she says, tugging gently on his wrist.

He’s always been helpless whenever it comes to her, and this is no exception. Crawling into their bed beside her, Jackson lets out a breath he didn’t know he’d been holding in. The bed smells the same, and while he knows that it would be unfair to expect Lydia to keep celibate when they’d decided to not try long distance, it’s a relief to know that she at least didn’t bring someone back to their bedroom.

“It’s always been you,” she murmurs, rolling and pressing her face into his shoulder.

With a little bit of wonder, he strokes her hair and tries not to notice how pale she is. Not the type of pale that she’s always been, she looks nearly anemic. “It’s always been you,” he echoes, holding her a little closer.

“Stay with me,” Lydia tells him, painfully aware that this can’t last.

Considering the life he left behind here, it’s with relief that he presses a kiss to her forehead and says, “Always.” He knows that he’ll have to call the lawyers tomorrow, and that the time difference will be nearly impossible to work with during meetings and court dates.

She nearly freezes. “Really?”

“Really,” he says. “No more London, no more midnight and eight am phone calls. I’m coming back.” Seeing Lydia like this, bruised and frail and nothing like the girl he left behind has made him realize that, if nothing else, he needs to be here. There isn’t another option besides coming home to her.

Breathing in slowly, she rolls against him and he feels her tears soak through his shirt. “Forever,” she breathes, looking out the window at the moon. The last time she’d taken note of it, she was curled up in the back of the car that Derek drove and had been dizzy from the pain of her dislocated shoulder. Then, it had hung high in the cloudless sky, a white orb that had made her feel secure for some ungodly reason. It’s begun to wane, now, and a fair sliver has been taken off since then.

Twisting his fingers through her hair, Jackson considers everything they will need to take care of tomorrow. Lydia should see a doctor, or a psychiatrist, or someone. She won’t want to, will probably put up the biggest fight they’ll have had since he told her he was going back to the UK, but he’ll at least talk to her about it. Plus, they need to talk about how Lahey died. Lydia just kept repeating that she’d killed him, she’d killed him and she didn’t want to talk about it. They’ll need to see the police, maybe. Or need to clean the scene to make sure they don’t.

It’s too many things to think about, really. Lydia needs to focus on whatever kind of recovery she needs, not the investigation that may ensue. And while Jackson looks exhausted, Lydia knows she can’t even imagine how big the bags under her own eyes are. Everything else can wait, even if just for tomorrow. She looks out at the moon, curls into Jackson, and lets herself truly rest.


End file.
